Dreams of Steel: Book 1: Asura
by kujikiri21
Summary: A decade has passed since the Fifth Holy Grail War and Shirou now walks to a peaceful place for him to rest, his life done and wanting nothing more than to hold his Saber in his arms. However, soon he will find out that Saber does not wait for him in Avalon, but in a place far more chaotic and war torn. Treating with the one who gave Saber her gifts, he pursues. Alt of LoS by Vahn.
1. Chapter 1

**Dreams of Steel: Book 1: Asura**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the franchises of Fate/Stay Night or World of Warcraft.**

**An Alt. Story of 'Lioness of Stormwind' by Vahn. Written with permission from Vahn.**

Prologue: Fallen and Reborn

_Earth, Digital Era_

The youth sighed slightly as he strode up the hill of emerald grass and soon entered the wood, his eyes focused on something in the distance, letting his instincts react to the soft earth and keep his feet.

It had taken quite a bit of research to find the spot he was now travelling to. Old papers and parchment in languages almost completely lost to time and a fair amount of guesswork. But even that wouldn't have been enough, facts and figures distorted and twisted over the years by scholars with more imagination than intelligence would have had him on the other side of the country.

Thankfully, his memories of her last days were still as vivid as ever, one of the last legacies that she had been able to leave behind for him to treasure and cherish.

'So long,' thought the red haired young man, the tinge of his thoughts both sorrowful and filled with anticipation, his golden-amber eyes warm with a tinge of resignation, 'it had been so long since I have seen her.'

The young man's thoughts drifted, as they so often did, to the focus of his life.

Hair of gold, eyes of an emerald green. An unconsciously proud and regal posture, despite her diminutive stature, that made all that saw her want to bow in reverence, knowing that they were, without a shadow of a doubt, in the presence of a King. A stern countenance that faced everything the world had thrown at her and hadn't shifted an inch. In battle her majesty was made even more apparent, fighting with a skill at arms that was nigh unmatched, a lion amongst wolves.

And yet, despite the presence she exuded, the face she showed to the world at large, it was perhaps the softer side she showed behind closed, locked and barred doors that was truthful.

She had walked her path almost without regrets, had almost ventured off of that path in the end, but had returned to the path she strode upon for nearly the entirety of her life...even if it had meant her own demise.

It was most difficult decision he could make, to allow her to make that choice, to let her follow that path to the end, even if his very heart and soul wanted nothing more than for her to stay by side, and he at hers, until the end of their days.

However, as he had learned early on, life is never fair.

Good didn't always win. Evil didn't always lose.

It was a sad truth, one that was borne out even more so with his various travels and adventures of the course of the years.

His soul crying out, he had given the last order to her, allowing her to strike out against the darkness one last time with the light of glory, a brilliant gold, as she so wanted.

"Saber," he softly whispered, tasting the name on his lips as he did so often, remembering the halcyon days that he had in her presence.

He stopped abruptly, a feeling in his chest making him hack and cough heavily, a hand to his mouth and hunching over just to keep his feet. For a minute he could barely breathe before the fit finally subsided, a soft familiar warmth slowly easing the tight feeling in his chest.

He removed the hand from over his mouth, not bothering to look at his palm, already knowing what he would see there, and simply removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it clean as he set off again.

He grimaced to himself. The fits had been worsening over the last year. He really should have been more careful on that raid of an Apostle's den two years ago, but there was nothing he could do about it now. None of his friends and colleagues, more educated and knowledgable than he, or himself had expected the types of injuries he had acquired to interact with even older, if much less visible, wounds that went beyond the facet of flesh, blood and bone.

The Fake Priest seemed to have gotten the last laugh beyond the grave.

He continued walking, following a trail he had only seen in his dreams. As he did, as he moved deeper into the forest, he felt the air change, charged with a power that was both alien and familiar. The scent of honeysuckle twitched his nose.

He smiled softly to himself, his eyes warm behind a handful of white hair strands that peppered the hair atop of his head. He knew what that scent, that was not truly a scent, meant. It seemed he was on the right track.

The air grew heavier, headier, as he continued his purposeful walk. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw flashes and streaks of light darting about, incandescent and fleeting, appearing only briefly.

He didn't bother to turn and look, knowing that the origin of these strange lights would be invisible to his direct looks. He also didn't try to find the source of several muted whisperings, indistinct and unintelligible but still clearly some form of language, along with soft giggles and wordless chimes, that followed his every step, seeming to come from every direction.

It seemed the mere memory of Saber was still well loved by the Fair Folk if their magic was so strong in this isolated little place.

The youth paused at the tree line, taking in the sight of the small clearing before him. The air was thick with the magic of the Fae here, at least in comparison to many other reputedly 'magical' sites that were really just tourist traps for the gullible and unknowing. Thick enough that the whole scene had a slight golden tint to it, as if a coloured lens was placed over his eyes, and the scent of honeysuckle was heavy enough for the young man to almost choke on it.

He probably would have if he hadn't been captivated by something far more important to him than the presence of the Fae.

On the other side of the clearing, directly in front of him, was an ancient tree, an oak the young man believed, around which the golden light that bathed the clearing clung more thickly to, to the point that it looked like the tree was made of golden light.

However, there were spots on the tree that the light shied from, faint splashes of discoloured bark could clearly be seen and the grass beneath it, wilted as it was, was even darker. The light kept well away from those places, as it they were anathema to it.

The blood of a King should never be spilled in their Kingdom.

Despite the dark and sorrowful nature of the place, the red headed youth smiled. He had found what he was looking for.

He bowed his head in respect to the clearing in general, "My thanks for allowing me this," he said with great respect, addressing the flitting lights and the beings that dwelled within them. Despite him being a warrior of some accomplishment, he had no power over the beings that dwelled here. He knew it was only through their grace that he had even been able to find the path or see the clearing and the tree for what it was.

The Fae were known, after all, to be masters of illusion and trickery.

The light of the clearing seemed to pulse in response, a feeling of acceptance and welcome resonating deep in the man's distorted soul. A feeling that was not his own.

He smiled again briefly before his face became somber. He had come here with a purpose, now was the time for him to fulfil it.

Without another thought, he strode into the clearing, making his way directly to the vast oak, a trail of flashing lights, the form that the Fae allowed themselves to be seen in, following after him, an entourage and an escort for a man that they didn't know at all but also knew quite well.

He came to stop just in front of the oak before going on his knees, kneeling in respect for one who had fallen there.

He could have perhaps done this back in Fuyuki, out by the lake behind the temple, but he had three purposes for his travels to the ancient land of Albion.

He was quiet for time, his head lowered as he tried to gather his thoughts, thinking about what he wanted to say. His tongue felt tangled and his throat choked heavily with emotion. There had been so much left unsaid between them when they had been forced to part. He honestly didn't even know where he could possibly start.

But he tried to anyway.

"Hey, Saber," he said softly, addressing the tree before him, his eyes not seeing it. Instead his mind pictured the reclined form of Saber as she rested against the tree, "it's been a long time hasn't it?" He tried to smile but it came out as watery and weak, his heart too confused and conflicted, "ten years," he laughed softly, "to be honest, I didn't think I would make it that long," he gave a rueful look to the image of the King of Knights that only he could see, her green eyes stern and disapproving. "Try as I might, I'm still fairly impulsive and reckless. Though I have made some head way. I at least take a moment to plan before I do something, even if it just to decide who to stop first." He grimaced slightly in remembrance of one of his more foolish actions, a twinge of pain running down his chest as he remembered the massive sharp stone monolith that Berserker had used as a weapon. Great God, that had smarted!

He sighed sadly, "it is probably because of that recklessness that I am now here today." his eyes were now downcast, ashamed. "It turned out that the corruption of the Grail had some far reaching and hidden effects on me when I was struck by Kotomine." He glanced up at her, her eyes questioning and stern, silently ordering him to continue on. Not that he wasn't going to do that anyway, it was part of the reason he was here in the first place.

"I had been struck by the curses before we both had invoked Avalon," he continued before barking a laugh abruptly, "and wasn't _that_ a surprise! I didn't even have the slightest clue that the Everdistant Utopia resided in me!" He looked at her image again, he could almost see the slightest of flushes on her cheeks, the only sign of her embarassment at his next words, "and I bet you didn't know either," he said slightly teasing, "for shame!" He mock tutted, the flush becoming a bit more noticeable, making him chuckle inwardly before becoming somber again. "In any case, despite Avalon's healing properties and holy attributes, it wasn't quite enough to remove the entire stain of the curses on my body and soul," he bowed dejectedly again, "they didn't weaken me at all, but it did leave me susceptible to a few things, an unknown bomb with a trigger that no one knew what could set it off." He looked wryly at the image of Saber, his eyes rueful, "it figures that I would run into something that would set it off."

The crimson youth sighed, rubbing a hand in the hollow of his right shoulder, between his neck and his collarbone, his hands feeling the oddly cold scars that were so different from his usual warm flesh. The pale marring stood out starkly against his more tanned skin, running directly across the space of the hollow. It looked an animal had bitten him hard and had held on.

It wasn't far from the truth.

To this day, years after the event, he could still clearly remember the pain of pale hands, their true strength belied by their delicate appearance, practically crushing down on his pinned forearms, like they were trying to turn his bones to powder.

He could still remember those eyes of wine red, of spilt blood, as they glared out of a half ruined face, a gift from him in the battle before hand. The unruined half was that of a comely woman, with pale skin and raven black hair, one that someone could mistake for a geisha's were it not for the utter hatred that crossed the woman's visage, scouring away any though of gentleness that the entertainers usually exhibited.

He could still remember the agonising feeling of the sharp fangs of the Dead Apostle as she viciously bit into his flesh, seeking to devour his blood and strength in an effort to recover her own and suborning his will to hers, a guardian to defend her from whatever attacked her hereafter.

His eyes had never forgotten the sight of her shocked face when his body had erupted into a series of blades, the weapons protruding from his skin like a macabre form of impalement, piercing her body and lifting her into the air and off of him, despite the pain he was in. His ears also never forgot the deathly wail and keen, even groggy and clouded as his mind was, of the vampire as those blades burned her with the extremely potent holy attribute inherent in them, killing her permanently within moments.

Much to her detriment, the vampire had learned that his body truly was made of swords.

His body shuddered slightly as it relived the memory of the Dead Apostle's blood that had begun to course through his veins, changing him, distorting him, attempting to transform him into a likeness of the being he had killed. His body shuddered even more as the memories of what he had to do to prevent himself from experiencing such a fate and the consequences of such.

Thankfully, he had managed to pull through and maintain his humanity...mostly.

The experience, however, had hardened him against beings such as the one he had faced. When he faced one of these beings on the battlefield, there was no quarter or mercy given, the only greeting he gave was a rain of steel.

He stirred himself from his memories as he glanced up at the imagined figure of Saber again. "I managed to make it through though," he continued, a small smile on his face. It felt good to get this off his chest, even if it was only to a figment of his imagination. It made him feel like a weight was lifted off his shoulders, that he had set down a burden to rest for just a moment, letting him catch his breath.

He thought he had a slightly better understanding of Saber and the life she had been forced to live due to drawing Caliburn from the stone. To always show a certain face to the world, to never let your true feelings be known. Always living up to a principle rather than your own desires, putting them aside for the sake of those that rely on you, look up to you for guidance.

As the saying went, it was lonely at the top.

Others had peers and friends to rely on, officers and superiors to guide them and advise them, to command them on what to do. This recognition of powers above them gave them security and peace of mind, a belief that those of their thrones would be able to make things right if they themselves should somehow falter or fail.

Not so with Saber.

As High King, she was ultimately responsible for everything that happened under her rule. She had no equal or superior to lean on or have them advise her. She made the final decisions and bore the consequences.

It was not a wonder that she had closed off her heart in those times and, when given the chance, had jumped at the opportunity to change things.

At least she had had some peace in the end.

A tight feeling surged in his chest, making him cough heavily, feeling like a scrubbing brush made of razors was being dragged back up his throat, tearing at the walls. He faintly tasted copper as he continued to hack and gasp. It looked like he was worse off than he thought, and he already knew he was in pretty bad shape.

He felt the faint warmth slowly envelope his injured throat and chest, faint and fragile as it tried to both numb and heal the injured area. Years ago, it would have done it before the cough had even appeared, but now, in it's current state, the once plentiful Prana of it's true wielder slipping away to mere dregs and vapours, it was hard pressed to even heal the damage afterwards.

'If only she were here,' he thought as he tried to get his breathing under control once more, finally succeeding after a few minutes.

"Though it wasn't without consequence," he murmured to the figment that now bent down beside his now sprawled body as he fought to keep his breath steady. He could imagine those emerald orbs looking at him in concern and worry, hidden by the calm mask that her face almost always displayed.

His heart ached. How he wanted to see her again. All of his trials and tribulations, his efforts and actions, were dedicated to that one desire. To see her, to hold her in his arms, to never let her go like he had to all those years ago.

But he wasn't sure he could now, not with what was happening to him, the degradation of his body, mind and soul.

Even Avalon, for all it's power, had it's limits it seemed.

But despite that doubt, he wouldn't stop trying. Reaching for that everdistant utopia, where he knew that the King of Knights of dwelled, waiting for one's arrival.

He would pursue this dream, this fantasy, until time itself burned away, becoming ash.

It looked like, though, that his time had run out, the last grains of sand falling through his hourglass.

It was the reason he had come here.

Just as the Old Man had passed on as they talked that night, so too would he pass on in the company, at least in his imagination, of the one who was most precious to him.

"I wish I could have joined you," he said wistfully to the figment of Saber, his eyes never leaving the sunlight that flowed through the large oak's leaves and branches as it mingled with the golden cast of Fairy magic in the air, "in Camelot I mean. To see the sights that you saw, to fight at your side. Each of us protecting the other." He smiled and chuckled slightly, "though I would do all the cooking," he stated glancing slyly at the form of Saber, imagining her blushing face at the statement, "the kitchen still smells of ash and cinder at times, you know?"

He sat still in the silence after that remark, his eyes starting to drift close and his mind slowly beginning to drift away, lulling him into a sleep from which he may not awaken.

A sharp prick in his arm, like a needle, however had him back to full alertness, his nostalgia vanishing. His eyes were now golden steel, hard and sharp, and his muscles tensed like corded steel, ready to move and lash out even in his currently vulnerable position on his back. A third-rate magus he may be, but he was still a fighter and a warrior at heart and was ready, willing and able to fight at a moments notice, regardless of the condition he was in. His Prana was already surging when he had been unexpectedly pricked, his mind flipping through the various weapons in his mind, looking for one to Trace...

Only to stop completely at what his eyes beheld, widening in absolute astonishment and surprise.

Tiny was the word that came to mind. Probably only a bit bigger than his thumb. With delicate wings, like those of an insect, made of pure golden light on it's back, hovering just over his chest. The face and figure was impossible to make out, looking like a vaguely humanoid shaped fragment of light itself, glittering as it stood there.

He knew what the being was, the scent of their magic choked the air around him, probably what had masked the beings approach, but he definitely didn't expect one of them to approach him.

Fae were notoriously shy and secretive after all, often taking actions out of sight and in the shadows, but almost never full on.

Still, despite the unexpectedness of it, he still had his manners.

"Greetings, little one," he said softly, hands away from his sides and clearly seen by any more of his little visitor's kin, showing that he meant no harm, "what is it that you want?"

The little Fae hovered and darted briefly at his question before zipping toward one of his hands. A soft warmth fill the young man as the Fae touched him and felt a slight pressure and pull as the little fairy tried to pull him up, clearly wanting to take him somewhere.

The young man just looked confused at the action, managing to sit up and stare at the fairy in even more surprise and wariness.

The youth felt he had the right to be cautious, the Fae were well known for their trickery and pranks played on the unsuspecting mortals around them. An enchanted sleep, a transformation and myriad of other tricks were spoken about in stories over the centuries. He had no desire to be thinking he was a turnip for the next decade.

However, by the same coin, there were stories that had the Fae helping heroes in some form or another. Arthurian legend was filled with such tales, the one about the Lady of the Lake being the most well known in those sagas.

He wasn't what he should do. The fact that the Fae were truly interacting with him at all was a surprise beyond measure, despite the location he was in. They could have just done what they wanted to him (his power was nothing compared to that of one of the Fae, after all. They were more formidable than their size suggested and he doubted that the rest of it's nearby kin would sit idle if he decided to attack.) but this one instead just woke him and was trying to lead him somewhere.

He abruptly froze as soft voice, ethereal and low, came on the wind. The entire clearing also stilled to a halt, the leaves on the trees freezing still, the golden light no longer danced, the background sounds of the forest like insects buzzing and chirruping of birds also fell the silent. Even the little Fae on his chest had stilled, hovering motionlessly in the air, a sense of attentiveness about it.

Falling silent as if in the presence of royalty, one that has commanded their silence and attention.

'_Follow,' _said the breeze of a voice, the words heard with more than just his ears, reverberating in his mind and soul. Despite the softness, there was a hint of power there, understated and hidden, veiling it's true strength. The scent of honeysuckle and, oddly, fresh water tickled his nose. '_Follow the little one, Pursuer. A chance at the Dream awaits you.'_

Then it was gone, the scent of water disappearing just as quick as it had arrived, like it was never there.

The scarlet haired male blinked slightly in his half prone position, his jaw slack in shock. _This _wasn't what he was expecting when he had set out that morning.

He looked at the little Fae that still held his finger in it's tiny grasp. "Lead on," he requested to the little spirit as he slowly rose to his feet, his legs slightly aquiver due to his shock at being addressed by what he instinctively knew to be a powerful Fae, one that wouldn't take well to her invitation being turned down.

The golden pixie shook itself from stillness, darting from side to side for a moment, before letting go of his index finger and darting off into the forest.

The youth quickly followed, his steps long and fast, chasing after the little being, even as his mind worked and churned.

The Voice...it had somehow been vaguely familiar to him, as if he had heard it before, somewhere. But, at the same time, he knew he had never met one of the Fae.

He ducked under a low branch as he kept his eyes on the darting golden flicker of his tiny guide, idly noting that he seemed to following an old trail. One that had not been used in quite sometime judging by the lack of clearly visible prints from either man or beast, yet, strangely, the trail was not overgrown. Leaves did not litter it nor did fallen trees or branches lie across it. Just a thin patch of bare earth that led in a winding way through the forest to who knows where.

This was clearly not a natural development, yet the signs of the hands of man or magus were not there for him to see or sense. There was clearly magic at work, but it was not of human design.

His face grew determined. No doubt this was the work of the Fae that lingered or visited here. He had a feeling he may be getting in over his head...but that didn't really concern him.

'A chance at the Dream awaits you'. That was what the Voice had said.

He pushed his body harder and faster, almost sprinting through the forest, dodging and weaving with a grace that few could match.

There was little he wouldn't do to reach that distant dream. And now he was possibly being offered a chance to attain it!

His mind urged caution, the flighty minds of the Fae were not to be underestimated, while his heart surged with hope, a chance to truly see Saber once more when his end drew near.

Reason and Desire warred within him as he ran down the the trail, the golden light his guided.

Time would show which would win.

* * *

><p>Beneath the waters of a deep lake, an ancient being waited patiently for the Sheath of her beloved King to enter into her presence.<p>

"Such a surprise," she murmured, her soft voice unaffected by the watery surroundings of her domain, a pale arm that had both gifted and received back the Sword of Promised Victory gently stroking the chin of her inhumanly beautiful features in thought, "I had not thought that he would ever come here."

She glanced to the side with her pale blue orbs as the water near her rippled and surged, taking on a different shape, a solid one, with a pale glow, becoming something else. A moment later and she was looking into a watery mirror, one that showed not her own reflection but instead showed the young man she had her eyes on as he made his way through the forest, one of her smaller kin leading him to her dwelling place.

"Shirou...Emiya..." spoke the lake spirit, tasting the name as she watched the identified, crimson haired young man with a critical eye.

So many connotations, so many meanings, to those two words.

Shirou. Warrior and Son. White. Hard Work.

Emiya. Defence or Protection. Constellations, Palace, Princess, Shrine.

She giggled softly. The land of Wakoku had such a beautiful language, so complex and meaningful.

She sobered back up as she continued to watch him make his way through the forest, the site at where her beloved Arturia had fallen. He was an interesting human, much like Arturia had been, though in rather different ways.

Arturia had been a unique existence from the very first day of her life. Even before she had drawn Caliburn she had had an air about her, a sense of presence and majesty, a natural charisma, that one simply couldn't just learn. It was as if she had truly been born to be a King, however much she had disliked the trials and tribulations she had faced when she had taken her seat on the throne.

Heavy is the head that wears the Crown. A more accurate statement the Fae woman would be hard pressed to find.

It was because of this uniqueness, this presence (as well as the meddlings of that old perverted cambion), that her kin and herself were drawn to her. Something new, something never or rarely seen in this endlessly turning world. The attraction had been like bees to honey, the Fae pursuing this new experience as much as they could.

Was it any wonder that this girl King was favoured so heavily by herself and her kin?

Even now, many of her kin expressed sorrow at her passing, lingering at the place where she had fallen. Even after over a thousand years since her death, it felt like only yesterday for those beings whose lifespans are endless.

Such was the burden those bound to eternity have to bear, seeing those who's own lives are fragile and fleeting disappear in the mere blink of their eyes.

The young man though was different.

The first few years of his life were a blank to her, scoured away from his very soul by the cursed fire of the corrupted Grail. She didn't even know his name from before that time, but then neither did he.

In fact, the first time she knew of him was when he had first opened his eyes during the aftermath of the shattered Grail, his young eyes seeing the tear-filled eyes and joyous face of one she had known for less than a month.

The Fae woman frowned, a human gesture she had adopted over the years. She was no fan of Kiritsugu Emiya. Her observations and understanding of him, through the fact that he bore Avalon in his soul, made her dislike him, his nature too different from her own to reconcile with her own beliefs.

Not to mention she could do nothing but observe as she watched his treatment of her precious Arturia, bound as she was by her own domain, her oaths and the contract Arturia had had with the world. It had been rather infuriating.

'_Still,' _she thought begrudgingly, '_were it not for his actions Arturia would have been trapped in a hell of her own making rather than accepting things as they are and allowing me to be able to both aid that moon goddess and give little Arturia a second chance...nor would I have stumbled across this interesting young man.'_

She returned her thoughts to the young man, her blue eyes watching as he moved through the now thinning trees along the sacred path that she had insured remained undisturbed. A fitting memorial for the most loyal Knight of the Round.

She had seen this Shirou Emiya's early years and the actions he had taken, seen the dreams he had and the goal he, perhaps foolishly, pursued. Wanting to be a true Hero in this era? It was almost a futile and foolish endeavour, almost as foolish as what he had done to be able to perform magecraft.

Yet another mark against Kiritsugu for not ensuring the young man's education in mysticism had been correct.

Still, the Fae couldn't help but admire the sheer determination of the young man, pushing against the obstacles set before him and striving for more, always looking for that one more step forward.

That determination had been one of the things that had helped him get through that damned Grail War.

She had seen the struggles he had went through along with the one he called Saber. The enemies they had fought, the trials they faced, slowly becoming closer and closer.

It had shocked her greatly when she had seen him perform that amazing feat of magecraft, however. Honestly, Projection, if it could be called that, of a functional Noble Phantasm, one that he had only seen in a dream before. Even for a Fae like herself, that wasn't something she had experienced before.

Closer and closer still they grew, becoming lovers, even if the first time had been out of necessity rather than anything else. Their hearts, both wounded in their own way, opened up to each other, creating a powerful bond that superseded the Command Seals the boy was branded with. It was partnership of trust and respect and love.

But then it had be broken.

It had impressed once more, what the boy had done at that lake's edge, looking at the corrupted sphere that was the Grail's true form. He could have ordered Arturia not to do it, to stay by his side. In fact, in his heart of hearts, he had wanted.

But he had too much respect for the King of Knights, too much love, to trample over the path she had chosen and was willing to see to the end. Instead of selfishly keeping her, he had instead supported her, letting her go.

The Grail hadn't stood a chance against the bond between the King and the Sword.

The goodbye between the two of them had been brief, a single set of words from each of them, before Arturia was forced back to her dying body just as the sun rose. However, those words, those meaningful words, said without a trace of regret, had been a spur to the sorrowful boy.

'_Shirou- I love you.'_

Powerful words, for all that it was barely a sentence.

And so the boy had pursued, seeking the continuation of her dream and his, wanting to meet her on those golden fields beneath a clear blue sky.

He had thrown himself into his craft and life, never forgetting the simply things he had but also striving for that one thing that seemed always just out of reach but determined to reach it, knowing that he would when the time came.

Finishing his schooling, he wandered hither and thither, across plains and meadows, seas and oceans. Up mountains and down hills. Through forests and swamps and caverns vast.

He travelled. He helped. He fought. He saved.

Everything he did to help humanity reach the impossible dream of Arturia's, a wonderful one that the boy shared.

Many of those he helped looked at him in suspicion, wondering what this strange man had wanted, and refused to let their jaded minds believe that he simply did it because he could. No man was that self sacrificing, willing to throw away their life for a complete stranger, in their experience, not without wanting something in return. Even soldiers and law enforcement were paid to do such jobs. They just couldn't understand his motives.

And people often as not fear what they do not understand. A fear that could easily turn into hate, which in turn was only a short step away from a desire to destroy.

A scant few, which was sad for what it said about the human race, thanked him for his aid, not needing to understand why he had done it, just happy that he had helped them when they were in need of it. This gratitude had helped the boy over the years form a small circle of informants, something that kept his finger on the pulse of human problems while he dealt with more...esoteric ones.

Werewolves. Apostle and Ghoul outbreaks. Demons. A few Philosophers. He had even fought and killed the Tenth before Merem Solomon or Lorelei of the Clocktower got there. Though even the Tenth was small fry compared to the smallest of handfuls of Chimeras he had faced.

All of these beings and more he had faced and defeated, though not always cleanly or easily, making quite the name for himself in magus circles. Circles which he was careful to avoid, not wanting to receive a Sealing Designation, which would have been a certainty once they found out his magics were due to a Reality Marble. The only contact he had with the magus community was through Rin and her master Zelretch.

It had, however, been during one of these hunts that he had felt the, literal, bite of mortality, which had then, eventually, brought him to this place, looking for a place that was close to his beloved Saber to rest his head and slip into the darkness for the final time.

At least, that was _his_ plan.

The water spirit had other plans.

The boy had proven himself to her, shown himself to be worthy of her beloved Arturia's affection.

The scrying mirror rippled and vanished, returning to it's initial watery state as the spirit saw that her small kin and the intriguing boy had emerged from the tree line of the forest to stand on a small hill that lead to large lake of pristine water.

She smiled to herself as she rose toward the surface of the lake, waiting to see the youth in person for the first time.

One pursues endlessly, trekking across the world, and maybe now even the cosmos, in hopes of reaching her.

And another waits eternally, perhaps not in the golden fields of utopia, but still waits with a yearning in her heart for the one she had given it to.

Two miracles.

It was high time that both Sword and Sheath were reunited.

* * *

><p>Shirou Emiya was panting slightly heavily as he broke through the tree line of the small forest, still chasing the little fairy that was his seeming guide.<p>

The swift chase through the forest had been tough on his body, especially in it's current state. He couldn't help but flinch slightly as the early afternoon sun bore down on him, affecting him more than it really should. His already slightly tired body slowed even more, becoming lethargic beneath the uninterrupted beaming rays.

He sighed mentally. It was yet another indication that he wasn't quite as human as he used to be.

He halted amount to adjust to the sun's power and let his eyes take in the sights that met them.

The small but dense forest had given way to a rolling moor, a hilly plain of grass, that extended for quite a distance. However, the biggest feature of the landscape, the one that stood out the most, was the large pool of water.

His eyes lingered on the dark water. It wasn't far from him, barely a half dozen minute's walk, and his little winged guide was making a bee line straight for it. Shirou was willing to bet good money that that was the destination. Though that begged the question: Why?

He quickly set off again, an odd sense of anticipation filling him.

He was soon at the lake's shore, watching as the fairy he had followed darted around the surface of the water, like a golden glowing dragonfly, seeming to land briefly and create ripples on the otherwise perfectly calm water.

Shirou looked around carefully. He may have been willing to follow the little Fae (though that Voice on the wind had given him a bit of a spur) but that didn't mean he was completely trusting of it, unlike when he may have as a teenager.

Experience in the world, with all it's horrors and wonders, had jaded him a little.

He stood at the edge of the watery surface, amongst a small clump of rushes and reeds. Aside from the small forest behind him, there was nothing in sight bar rolling grassy slopes and still water.

He also couldn't feel or sense even the merest fragment of power in the vicinity save for that of the darting and playful fairy. No indication that the source of the Voice was anywhere near.

He felt a strand of annoyance and anger light within him. Did the Fae just want to play with him? His life and struggles mere entertainment for them?

He was about to turn around and leave when it hit him like a truck speeding down the highway.

Shirou fought to keep himself upright as a blanket wave of power suddenly hit his senses like it had dropped out of the sky, completely without any preamble or warning.

His nose was filled with the overpowering scent of water and honeysuckle, the same scent that had whispered to him on the breeze. He reeled back slightly, taken completely by surprise. He thought he would have some warning, his senses some of the most keen in regards to psychic phenomenon amongst magi to his knowledge.

He stared in shock as the lake surface began to ripple and glow with an unearthly white light, his little fairy guide darting to and fro around it wildly, as if dancing with delight. Something was coming, and it was beyond powerful. It made the Apostles he had fought liken to ants in comparison.

A smooth white arm was the first thing to emerge, pale and slender, perfectly formed. Inhumanly perfect.

Golden threads came next, long and wavy in soft curls, not a speck of moisture clinging to it despite from where it had arisen. It sat atop a pale and beautiful face, the sapphire eyes in said face looking at him with curiosity and regality, a queen in judgement.

Shirou couldn't help but take a sharp breath as he looked into that face, ignoring the, admittedly, well formed and voluptuous body that also arose from the lake, covered in white silk so sheer that it was practically transparent, until it arose completely out of the watery body, hovering slightly above the surface, breaking the laws of nature completely without effort.

He knew that face. He knew this woman. Even if he had never met her in person.

Saber's own memories were still as clear as the day he had first seen them in his dreams.

"Lady Vivian," he said in utter respect, taking a knee and bowing his head before the Lady of the Lake, a friend and, perhaps, the greatest patron Saber had ever had. He would not demean Saber in any form by being any less than respectful to the water Elemental.

He was met with only silence from her for a moment, the still joyful buzz of his little guide and the soft sloshing of the disturbed water the only thing he heard even as his mind buzzed with thought.

"Arise," the watery echoing voice of the Lady said, "arise and look at me, Shirou Emiya."

Shirou didn't hesitate and rose as smoothly as he could to his feet once more, the constant tiredness and weariness of his body due to the events that had made him come here vanishing beneath her soft words.

Shirou looked directly back into the pale blue orbs of the Lady of the Lake, his tongue staying silent. She had called him here for a reason, a reason he had no doubt she would reveal in time. All he had to do was wait patiently.

Though he was more than a little wary of her. Fae were unpredictable at the best of times. There was no telling if she was a ally or an enemy at the moment, but he wouldn't be the one to throw the first punch if she was hostile.

The two, Elemental and distorted human, studied each other for a long moment.

Shirou had to admit that Lady Vivian was easily one of the most beautiful beings he had ever met, at least in physical looks. Soft but sharp features, a perfect hourglass figure that she seemed unafraid, or uncaring, about showing off, the way she held herself. She was like a flame drawing any human moth in sight, even women would no doubt be captivated and spellbound at her appearance.

However, beneath that fair facade, Shirou could feel the tightly leashed power she possessed. Alien and strange even to his distorted perception, but that was to be expected. For all her looks, Vivian was not human and did not see the world in the same way. What may be important to man as a whole, may be nothing of consequence at all to her.

It was the most frustrating and difficult thing about human-inhuman accords and relations.

His study was halted as the deceptively placid and calm eyes of Vivian finished their own study of him and she began to speak.

"Well met, Shirou Emiya," the Lady of the Lake spoke calmly, her body drifting over the lake until she met the shore, "I have wanted to meet you for some time."

"Well met, Lady Vivian," Shirou responded politely, taking another bow, "had I known that you desired my presence I would have come immediately."

"Perhaps," she said agreeably with a small regal nod, even as her lips twitched, as if she wanted to smile in humour, "but perhaps not," her smile grew into a small smirk, a cold light of mischief burning in her icy blue eyes, "surely you didn't think that finding a place so prevalent, at least by modern standards, with the appearance of the Fae would have as been as easy as it was for you?"

Shirou unconsciously felt his body tense further as the implications of the Lady's words set in. Shirou didn't like being manipulated, at least by someone he didn't know.

"I would have tried," he answered simply, hiding the slow anger burning in his breast behind the stony mask he wore as his visage. Getting angry at her would serve nothing, it was best just to leash his annoyance, for now anyway.

Besides, while he didn't enjoy being manipulated by any stretch of the imagination, it had been done to him, not others, and hadn't yet resulted in any harm.

"Indeed," her smirk became a small smile once more, the blue orbs becoming warm with approval, "and it because of that that you have drawn my eye." She floated forward even more, lowering herself slightly to place herself on the damp and muddy shore, amazingly not sinking at all into the morass, and walked on immaculate feet towards him, water burbling and flowing from the lake to follow her footsteps.

Despite the soft smile that adorned her visage as she approached him, Shirou couldn't help but be wary. The scent of her power was thick and heavy, a cloak of strength and mystical might that warned him that he was completely outmatched in the power stakes. It was like he was facing Berserker again, without the rage, bloodlust and aggression, but the Lady was no less powerful for it's absence.

The way she moved, an inhuman grace and stride, like the leopards he had once seen in a documentary or like the panthers he had seen in a zoo a few years back, also put him on edge. It was the walk of someone who had the higher power, who knew that the one they approached was no threat at all to them.

Shirou might have been more insulted if he had more pride. As it was, he knew that the Lady's beliefs were hardly inaccurate.

He didn't move as the elemental stopped directly in front of him, almost within his personal space, and locked eyes with him once more.

"You bear the Sheath." She stated, making it sound like a fact, an irrevocable truth.

Shirou only nodded in agreement. It was hardly surprising that the very being who had once given the sheath of Excalibur to Saber would be able to sense it's presence, no matter how well it was hidden.

Lady Vivian frowned slightly, her face tilted as if assessing him again. "You are an interesting mortal," she said, her eyes dissecting him, peering into the very depths of his soul, his secrets laid bare before her eyes. Eyes that held wisdom and knowledge beyond almost anything that currently walked the earth.

Eyes that softened slightly as they went distant, obviously no longer seeing him. "Almost as interesting as _She_."

Shirou couldn't help but inwardly choke in remembrance of the woman that the Lady of the Lake referred to. There was only one person she could refer to in that manner.

"I disagree," he said softly, those blue eyes snapping back into focus on him the weight of eternity in those eyes on his shoulders easily borne. "She was beyond one such as I. An existence seen but once and never again." He smiled at the Lady slightly, the vision of regal Saber replacing the lake spirit, "in my eyes, there was none equal to her."

The Lady observed him slightly before nodding in approval, her smile a little wider.

"I have watched you for a long time, Shirou Emiya," Lady Vivian said, addressing him, her eyes piercing once more, "ever since you became the Sheath's bearer, I have been able watch you, the link between it and I unfading and unending."

Her eyes went distant again even as the swordsman stiffened slightly at her words. He wasn't fond of his life being an open book for anyone, let alone a being of such power as she.

"Every choice you made, every action you took, every thought you had. All of these were revealed to me ever since Kiritsugu," the Elemental's face went slightly dark and the name said with clipped and hard tones, the ice blue eyes she had turning glacially cold and a flux of power wafting off of her almost sending him stumbling back.

It was obvious to him that the Old Man was not a favoured person of the Lady of the Lake.

Once upon a time, Shirou probably would have taken offence and defended his adopted sire. However, it hadn't been until after the Grail War that he had travelled the world and, through various means, found out about the past of the man he had called Father. Illyasveil, his adoptive little sister and biological daughter of Kiritsugu, before she had passed on, had been a font of information as well, albeit biased from a bitter Einzbern perspective.

He had found it had to reconcile the morose and sorrowful Old Man and the cold and calculating Magus Killer were one and the same.

Nevertheless, it had been true and his Father's former lifestyle and past actions had come back to haunt his son, adopted or not. The confrontation with the remaining Archibalds had not been pleasant when they had found out about him.

He had tried to talk his way out, but they had wanted nothing to do with it. Kiritsugu had cost them too much in the Fourth Holy Grail War. The clan's Crest and the death of their chosen heir being prominent among them. They wanted nothing more than his hide on their wall.

The fallout had been put down to a terrorist bombing and no more Archibalds walked the earth anymore.

Yes, his Father not been a nice man in the past, he could admit that much.

"Placed Avalon within you," the Elemental continued, her voice softening from the cold rage that had infused it before at the mere mention of the Old Man. Her blue eyes focused back on him, "Your botched Magecraft training, your school years, your first fight, your heroic desires." Her eyes softened even more, a glimpse of tenderness not directed at him but at a memory she was reliving, "Your summoning of Arturia, your fights at her side, the enemies you fought, the injuries you sustained in an attempt to help and save." The eyes came back to him. "Your love for her, the desire to never let her go and the decision to let her go." Her head tilted to the side, "Few mortals would have had the fortitude to honour that wish, their selfish ways wanting them to keep her at their side, regardless of the cost." Her head bowed in respect, "you have my respect for such a painful choice."

Shirou glanced to the side in discomfort, an old hurt beating in his chest. That decision, even a decade after he had made it, still pained him. He didn't regret it, they both knew it had to be done and had finally accepted that, but he still wistfully wished it hadn't been necessary. The hurt had been softened after he had affirmed to himself that he would see her again, no matter what it took.

"You dedicated your life to reaching her again," Vivian continued her blue eyes piercing him again, "with every battle you fought, every foe you faced, every life you saved, your thoughts were not on your own life, but on _Hers_," the Elemental smiled slightly, her eyes gleaming with respect, "I have not seen such dedication since she passed on."

Shirou looked at her sharply, discomfort and weakness forgotten. "She was able to truly let go?" He asked, intent on Saber. He remembered the bargain she had struck with the world, had seen her utter the words in the dream cycle. It was because of that wish that she was able to appear in the Grail Wars, despite not being a proper Heroic Spirit.

A wish to not to have been King, to have not drawn the sword from the stone, in return for her services after her death. He grimaced inwardly to himself. Service to the World after death was not a fate he would wish on anyone.

He had come close to doing so a few years back, willing to give his life for a little over hundred people's lives, but had been stopped from doing so by Rin's Master.

He shivered slightly. It had been the first time that he saw even a small fraction of Zelretch's true power, had seen the destruction that a Magician could wreak if they had the desire or the inclination to.

Having seen it, he had no desire whatsoever to have it pointed in his direction. And that was without taking into account the rumours of the Dead Apostle Ancestor's twisted sense of humour. Rumours that Rin had at a later date confirmed.

The wielder of the Kaleidoscope had utterly _erased_ the Ghouls and their progenitor that were after the hundred or so people off of the map, with a surge of magical power so great as to turn the landscape into a glass mound.

And then, with a careless hand wave and a mocking grin and wink, had changed the hundred or so folk's memories of what had happened and simultaneously moved Shirou and himself to another location in a sparkle of rainbow light.

The conversation that had then been had between the two of them had been quite serious, resulting in young Shirou being shown the truths of what it meant to make a contract with the world. Namely by having the memories of his counterpart that had went through with the deal being shoved into his skull sideways.

A counterpart that he now knew had been Archer in the Fifth Grail War, the Servant that had been summoned by Rin.

The nightmares that had followed that particular revelation, as well as the bitter and horrifying memories that refused to be forgotten were barely offset by the vastly increased arsenal of weapons he was able to Trace and a better understanding of what he was capable of.

It honestly scared the living hell out of him to see what he could have become, the things he could have done, had Zelretch not pulled him from that path. And he had done them all because of his dream to save everyone.

The road to hell was truly paved with the best of intentions.

When he had recovered from the blinding migraine induced by the revived memories, he had asked the master of the Kaleidoscope why he had done this. From his reputation and Rin's rants, he knew true altruism was not an attribute that Zelretch had acquired over the years. He was more likely to just sit back and laugh himself sick at the mess he made of his life.

The answer had been strange, even by the old vampire's standards.

_"Call it an experiment, my good man," Zelretch said, that wild and mocking smirk that was always on his face turned up to full power, "I want to answer an age old question, one pondered philosophers since Time itself began." The smirk became a full blown leering grin, making the suited vampire look like he should have a curly moustache, a tied up damsel over his shoulder and rubbing his hands together while cackling with glee. "Red vs Blue. Who will win?"_

He still wasn't sure what that had been about.

Still, such thoughts were for another time.

There were more important events taking place, urgent questions that needed to be answered.

"She did," Lady Vivian said with a nod, "in the end."

Shirou let out a soft sigh of relief his whole body relaxing, a sudden wave of weakness striking him, sending him to the ground, his face staring up into the blue sky.

It seemed his time was nearing it's end, the warmth in his chest that had kept him alive this long slowly began to dim from the crackling fire it had been, soon to become embers, then a single candle flame, as it worked feverishly to keep it's current bearer alive. An effort Shirou knew to be futile, the poison of a legacy of the Red Moon and the formerly dormant curses from Angra Mainyu being a far too potent combination even for Avalon. The best it could do was slow it down, not stop it, and even then the last vestiges of it's true wielder's power, power that activated it's abilities and let it heal him when in combination with his own power, were almost completely faded.

"Good," he whispered softly as he felt the familiar tang of metallic copper in his mouth, "that is good."

He could feel his life force ebbing. He still had a little time, maybe an hour, but after that his body would give up the ghost completely. He had timed things pretty well if he was honest. The shadows were growing longer and the sun, much to his surprise, was near to setting, casting a blood red light over the expanse of what he could see.

He couldn't but chuckle wetly at the oddly appropriate scene. A warrior meeting his end at dusk, how like a fairy tale.

A darker shadow cast over him as Vivian leaned over him, blocking out the sky and sun, her face now cooly impassive like the surface of her own domain, but her eyes shown with a light he could quite describe.

"You're dying," she said flatly. Her words were a statement.

Shirou only raised an eyebrow where he lay, his limbs too heavy, as if elephants were sitting on them, to move, silently conveying his response of 'no kidding.'

Her gaze grew sharper, "you came here to die, to be by her side, at the end."

Shirou could only wiggle his eyebrow in a form of a nod, a slow heavy numbness taking over his limbs, draining them of strength, making them unresponsive. Cold. Still.

Dead.

It was now a struggle to even breathe.

A sliver of emotion and thought crossed over the Lady of the Lake's face, as if she were contemplating something for a moment.

"You know that if you die here...you may not see her for a long time...if at all."

Shirou felt his eyebrow rise sharply, his golden eyes going hard. What did she mean?

"Something happened on the night she passed on," the Lady of the Lake spoke to a captive audience, "as Visitation. One from a Divine Entity." Shirou felt a slight chill even in his current state. Dealing with Gods in any shape or form rarely turned out well for the mortal party.

"She needed a favour," Vivian continued, "one that could only benefit me, and the Earth itself, in the future," those blue eyes glittered fiercely, an inhuman amount of emotion in those eyes, "it also gave me a chance to see the one who brought such wonder to those around her another chance, a better chance, at a happier life."

Shirou realized almost immediately what the Elemental was saying.

"Elune, the Lunar Goddess of Azeroth, from a realm so very distant from here, had need of a Champion." Vivian looked back down into the golden orbs of the young man, "I gave her mine.

"I gave her Arturia."

Shirou felt something crack within him at those words, like something was being pulled in two different directions.

On one hand, according to the Lady, Saber was now living out her own life, a life without the burdens and horrors that came with taking a crown, a life of freedom and choice, to a point. An average life. One that he knew she desired greatly and yet had forfeited the chance for when she had destroyed the Grail. If anyone deserved that life, that chance, it would be her.

Part of him was honestly happy for her, happy that she had that chance.

On the other hand it also meant that the chance for him to see Saber may very well have vanished. Without her there, in those golden fields beneath a blue sky, awaiting his arrival, his miracle of pursuing endlessly, a miracle Zelretch himself had stated was one of two that was needed for him to see her again, would not be enough.

And to never see her again, to hold her in his arms once more, was a pain that hurt like no other.

To be always parted from the reason for his existence, to always fall short of reaching his goal, no matter what he did...

A wave of determination filled him suddenly, his broken eyes hardening as he fought to make his failing body move.

No. No! He refused to accept that possibility, that dark chance, of never seeing her again. He refused to believe that she had been sent on of her own will, that she had consciously turned her back to him!

Even with his strength failing, he fought to rise to his feet, not stopping even as the numbness weighed heavily on his soul, as the savage pain in his chest, a legacy of the damned priest, began to overwhelm the guttering candle that was Avalon.

Even if she was transported, transmigrated or whatever it was, it meant she was still somewhere, still waiting for him. They may not meet in those golden fields, but as long as he pursued, they would meet, in another, in another place.

His rising to his feet was stopped just as he sat up, a delicate hand that belied the strength within it holding him still. He glared lightly at the form of the Lady of the Lake as she held him there. Even if he couldn't speak, even if his magecraft had waned, even if it was struggle to even draw breath or move, he refused to back down from the one who had taken Saber from him.

However his indignation sputtered slightly as he noticed the small smile on her face as she looked at him. One of happiness, pride and approval, as if she found something that she wanted for a long time and had just obtained it.

"You continue to impress me," the Lady murmured to him, "despite being told what you heard, your faith in her is still unshaken and solid, your goal has not changed despite the difficulties being increased significantly." She smirked at him, a twinkle in her eye, "perhaps Bedivere has a rival in you?" She chuckled slightly, sounding like watery bells.

Shirou could only stare in confusion, his mind befuddled at the mercurial Elemental's actions, even as the slim hand flowed down from his shoulder, dancing over his scarlet coat, to gently rest her palm directly over his heart. The touch was wonderful, much to his embarrassed confusion, and the surging pain in his chest ebbed even as the healing warmth increased, no longer losing ground against the curses of All The World's Evil, just by the woman's simple touch.

"Tell me, Shirou Emiya," began the lady Fae, those warm blue eyes now intent, glowing with her ethereal power as the scent of honeysuckle grew overwhelming, "if I were to be able to send you to your Saber...would you be willing to treat with me?"

Shirou didn't hesitate.

* * *

><p>As the sunset below the horizon, the red light of the distant orb giving way to the shroud of darkness that was the night, heralding a night of which the dead and magical walked the earth freely once more, if one could looked down onto the moors of Cornwall from the sky, they would have seen a sight that would have taken their breath away.<p>

A certain lake, a large pool really, one that legends and myths of Knights and Kings, of Swords and Fairies, surrounding it, began to glow a mix of bright shining silver that looked more like steel, sharp and piercing, and an odd shade of colour, like a combination of deep purple and red that verged on black, that gave off a feeling of wrongness and eeriness, a mist of power rising from it's depths to fill the night with light for a brief moment more.

It pulsed like a heartbeat, expanding with every throb until the mist completely covered the watery landmark.

Another heartbeat passed before the mist abruptly gathered into a tight orb, like a miniature sun or moon, in the very middle of the lake before shooting off into the sky, so swift as to only glimpsed by those who watched the night skies, thinking it only a shooting star, a streak of light in the darkness, before it completely vanished.

And Vivian only smiled at the departure of the soul of the one who held her precious King's heart, even as his empty shell of a body crumbled and cracked, reducing itself to the earth from which it came.

"One chapter is done," she mused, floating back towards her abode, a sense of tiredness filling her, having expended a great deal of her formidable power to both send the soul of the Emiya child on to cross paths once more with his beloved Saber and to grant him the appropriate gifts as a reward for his loyalty and great deeds (though she had, much to her annoyance, had to resort to calling in a favour from one she did not like.) that would have made him an equal at the Round had he been born during the time of Camelot. "And another begins."

She slowly began to sink into her lake, ready to sleep and dream. Dream of her beloved King and the Sword that chased her in a land filled with chaos and war.

She giggled slightly at the thought as she sank beneath the surface, slumber only moments away.

Sword and Sheath with King and Knight, heroes of black and white, fighting for what was right.

Her eyes finally closed as she hit the bottom of the lake, her body losing cohesion, changing from flesh to water, and dissipate amongst her domain.

_The Legion wouldn't know what hit it._

* * *

><p><em>Outlands, Draenor<em>

_Thump-thump. Thump-thump._

Shirou's eyes snapped open, only to be met with a moist darkness.

_Thump-thump._

He tried to turn his head, to see where he was, only to find it difficult to move, a wet, warm and clinging film hugging close his curled up body.

Where was he?

_Thump-thump-thump._

He tried to frown, finding it difficult to even move his facial muscles twitch, as if they had never been used before, as he tried to identify the beating sound, deep and powerful enough for him to feel it, like a sonic blast being felt underwater.

_Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump._

It increased again, sounding faster and harder, even as he felt the cling of, what he now recognised as, wet flesh as his body was pushed forward, towards something.

_Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump_.

Another squeeze and he was pushed forward again, making him panic. What was going on?!

_Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump._

Yet another squeeze, this time pushing him face first downwards, towards something. He could hear odd sounds, murmurs really, now even as his mind tried to catch up with what was happening.

The last thing he remembered was the Lady casting her spell, one that would send him Saber, of rather to her current world, and then his...soul...

...

_Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump._

Yet another squeeze, pushing toward what his weak eyes could now see as a glimmer of light, something he disregarded as he almost fell limp as he understood what was happening.

The damned spirit had reincarnated him, with his memories, into the body of a child just being born!

_Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump._

He was squeezed even further along what he now knew to be the birth canal, his head and skull clenched tightly by soft flesh. He shuddered in realisation.

He was a man who had walked across desolate battlefields filled with nothing but the corpses of the dead and dying, had faced beings who's very presence twisted the minds of others into insanity and had looked The White Beast of Gaia directly in the eyes.

But he had never been so horrified/terrified/disgusted than he was now. No one should have the memories of their birth!

_Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump._

Yet another squeeze and his head was through the entrance of his mother's womb, allowing him to take his first breath of fresh air and see his first face.

"Ahhhhhh!" He couldn't help but let out a cry of victory and relief as he emerged.

#_Ho ho!# _a musical yet sensual voice spoke, sounding amused, even if he couldn't understand the words or see the speaker as his new eyes were blinded by the bright light, delicate hands slowly lifting him, #_Quite the pair of lungs on this one, Mistress.#_

_#Hush, Anat,# _another voice spoke, much deeper and darker than the previous voice, clearly male, as it's tones gave the reflection of authority. The tones changed, slight affection entering them, #_How do you fair?#_

_#Tired, my Lord,# _a panting voice spoke, an odd hissing undertone to it, but clearly female despite it. Shirou assumed that it was his mother, the other female voice having shown no exhaustion that accompanied mothers in the birthing process. His eyes were adjusting now and could see slightly blurry shapes. #_Tired, but happy. Happy to have brought a child into this world.# _Shirou could hear strains of exaltation in his presumed mother's words.

#_So am I,# _the rumbling voice of the male murmured, #_So am I.#_

Shirou's sight finally returned to relative normal as he felt himself moved through the air, the delicate hands offering him to another.

It was then that he got his first look at his mother in this world, and it was far from what he expected, making him stop wailing in surprise.

The woman he beheld crooned wordlessly at him as two of her six sweaty and shaking powder blue hands gently lifted him from the hands of the woman behind him.

#_So beautiful,# _she whispered to him, cradling him close to her barely covered breasts in her topmost arms, as she looked down at him with glowing scarlet eyes even as the numerous snake heads that she had for hair looked upon him intently, their forked tongues flickering flickering near her long pointy (almost elven if he was honest) ears. It was like he was looking at a cross between the common depiction of the Gorgons from Greek myth and a Naga from Vedic and Hindu belief.

Yet, despite that scary appearance, he couldn't help but find her beautiful and feel safe in her arms as she held him close, crooning wordlessly, making him feel tired and sleepy.

#_So wonderful,# _he heard her croon, echoed by the mane of serpents, #_So different. So unique.#_

Before he drifted off to rest, exhausted by the birth and his mind confused, a rough finger and palm gently patted and stroked his head, making him feebly open his eyes slightly to see who had done it.

#_Sleep well, my son,# _the owner of the large and rough hand said, his eyes covered by a dark blindfold lashed against extremely dark purple skin, but still burned with emerald flame through the fabric. #_Sleep and grow powerful.#_

Shirou, even if he didn't understand the words, closed his eyes and rested against his new mother's bosom.

And dreamed of swords and battle. With Saber at his side.

* * *

><p>Thus a new being was born on Azeroth, a mere babe in arms, that would soon grow to be something beyond the ken of most.<p>

_This, _is the beginning...of the Asura.

* * *

><p>Well folks, this is my new story, one that was inspired by one of the greatest authors to grace FFNET, Vahn. If you haven't read any of his stories, I recommend that you do so, his works are <em>Fabulous~.<em>

It is highly recommended that you read his Lioness of Stormwind stories in order to familiarise yourself with the universe I am using.

Hopefully you guys will like it.

With best wishes,

Kujikiri21


	2. Chapter 2

**Dreams of Steel: Book 1: Asura**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the franchises of Fate/Stay Night or World of Warcraft.**

**An Alt. Story of 'Lioness of Stormwind' by Vahn. Written with permission from Vahn.**

**_"_****_in the game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground._****_" _****_Cersei Lannister, A Game of Thrones._**

**_"_****_You are not prepared!_****_" _****_Illidan Stormrage. The Burning Crusade_**

Chapter 1: Tempering

Clack! Clack!

The rhythmic pounding of wood on wood filled the dark Training Grounds of the Illidari, as a highly toned set of arms repeatedly struck the wooden post with the instruments they held.

Clack! Clack!

Never missing a beat, a constant and even tempo as wood struck wood. The striker was performing no kata or movement drill. This was a toning exercise, one designed to strain the muscles, to help the striker build up their strength and endurance.

Clack! Clack! Clack!

Left arm and right arm. Left arm and right arm. An endless repetition. It was a monotonous and tiring exercise, one that many younger and more inexperienced practitioners of the martial arts would not see the point of or think they were useless, eager to learn the secret arts of either blade or fist and then make their mark on the world, only seeing in those techniques that they had seen their masters or mentors use the fall of their enemies and themselves receiving glory, triumph and adulation.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Clack! Clack!

Those dreamers had never seen crimson gore of another thinking being paint the ground.

They had never smelled the rotten odour of a loosening bowel belonging to a corpse.

They had never felt the bite of steel in their side as someone they had once called friend buried a hidden dagger in their gullet and dragged it along their front, their steaming guts, putrid and purple and slimy, spilling out onto the cobble stones of a dank alley.

They had never heard the screams of women and children and the elderly as, now defenceless due to the local militia being killed brutally, were dragged away in chains, bound who knows where to suffer untold horrors at the hands of a heartless being with enough gold to purchase their life and soul.

They had never tasted the blood and bile creeping up their throats as they writhed on the ground, their vision quickly blackening as they tried futilely to draw breath through a crushed throat.

They didn't have a clue about what 'adventuring', what 'being a Hero', truly meant.

And they probably never will.

Clack! Clack!

The striker's sweat slick hands kept a firm grip on the wooden training blades, the lead within them causing him little strain to lift as he endlessly struck away at the post, feeling the thump and crack and clash ripple up the fake sword but his grip was far too experienced, too good, to let it jar out of his hands.

He had been at this for at least three hours now, unable to find rest this night for some reason, the tightly corded muscles beneath his little-darker-than-sky-blue skin feeling the burn, particularly in his shoulders, feeling restless and jumpy, as if they felt something in the air had changed.

Clack! Clack!

His red hair, arguably his most defining feature, hung limp and wet, plastered to his skull, and his long, very long, tapered ears pointed firmly back, much like his father's race. The wet hair was, unfortunately, not cut short enough to not hang in front of his amber orbs flecked with silver, making it difficult to properly see his target to strike. Not that it deterred him, his trainers had made him work in worse situations than merely having his vision obscured by his own hair.

His mother had been very adamant that he not have it cut short of a certain length. He wasn't exactly sure why, and it was somewhat of a pain at times. But the minute he went to get knife to adjust to a proper length, he remembered the soft, almost awed, touches of his mother's hands on his fiery mane. Her yellow eyes distant and slightly wistful, maybe even yearning, as if remembering and reminiscing on past events that she wished had never finished.

He couldn't find it in his heart to take away something that gave his mother such joy, making her truly smile instead of scowl, sneer, smirk or snarl, however fleeting and ephemeral it was.

So he just grin and beared it. It was hardly _that _much of an annoyance. Besides, his father had much much longer hair and it didn't seem to bother him any when he was sparring. He was King of the Mountain here.

Not that any were stupid enough to challenge him.

Clack! **Clack!**

He breathed deeply as he rested his fake blades on the training post/dummy for a moment, sweating dripping down his bare chest, free of the tribal like markings that adorned his father, and soaking the loose pants, his sash and the strip of fabric that hung over the front of the sash that was embroidered with the symbol of his father's forces, as he leaned his head to look up into a sky so different from anything else, anywhere else. A sight that was truly unique to Outland.

Nebulas. Bright orbs. Two moons, one red and the other pale white. In the far distance, through the veil of ever shifting green that was the Twisting Nether and the dancing light of stars, he could see an orb of verdant green and blue, with splashes of deep brown. The top of said orb, or maybe the pole would be a better word, was also covered in a veil of white, what he knew to be a cap of snow and ice.

He knew that place, even if he hadn't ever been there. The birth world of his father and mother. A place that saw countless battles and endless wars. A land where two factions, the Horde and the Alliance, continuously struggled for supremacy in an Age of Chaos.

Azeroth.

The boy felt his burning shoulders lessen slightly. His small break was over, time to get back to work.

The boy shifted his bandaged, but otherwise bare, feet as he prepared for another series of a thousand double strikes, horizontal this time, the slightly claw like nails of his feet subtly gripping the sand covered stone of the Training Ground, which meant he would be twisting his torso and hips a lot. Contrary to what many might believe, the strength of sword strike did not come just from the hands, wrists, arms and shoulders. The entire body also played a part, the torso, the hips and the legs often making a difference between a successful or unsuccessful blow or block or parry.

As one of his assigned trainers had called it at one point, 'the Unity of Flesh and Steel'. A philosophy that was close to mysticism that believed that a weapon was only a channel through which the flesh, the wielder, could exert their will and that the strength of the weapon was irrelevant. In this philosophy, a man with strong will and conviction and flesh, armed with but a butter knife, could feasibly do as much damage, or more, as someone with a weapon of legendary calibre.

The trainer was more correct than he knew.

Twirling his wrists, and spinning the weighted training blades, he set himself to begin the next part of the drill...

"You are out a bit late aren't you, young lord?"

Only spin around, reacting as he was taught, his blades leading as they sought to strike down the perceived threat that he hadn't detected before then, his instincts moving ahead of his sight and conscious comprehension.

Chunk! Chunk!

Only his training blades to lodge themselves on sharp edge of a large red glowing glaive that his sneaky opponent had rose across their body, preventing any damage to them.

It also gave the bare chested boy pause, allowing him to comprehend what he had done and, more importantly, who he had done it to as his eyes widened at the sight of the one who he had believed to be an enemy.

It was a female night elf, her long green hair tied in a tight braid would reached her lower back had it not been draped over the front of her shoulder, letting it fall down her front. A fang-like mark, dark green to match her hair, went from under her blindfolded eyes to her jaw line, the mark of maturity and adulthood among her race. She wore loose pants, similar to his own, own a inky black and slightly tighter, which matched her forearm long gloves, which incidentally left her palms and fingers entirely exposed. Her upper body was entirely bare of clothing except for an extremely minimal copper-toned breastplate that looked more like a bra, which covered little more than her bountiful breasts and her abdomen and was held in place by a collar around her neck attached to two leather straps. Her more unique features, the large purple bat-like wings attached to the back of her shoulders, were furled and tucked away behind her back, at rest and not likely to be used soon.

He knew this person.

"Sorry, Master Alandien," he said sheepishly, quickly and firmly removing his training swords from the night elf's glaive, the wooden casing splintered and cracked and the lead weighted core notched and scarred as evidence of the glaive sharpness, and let them dangle his side, a wordless expression of peace and desire to not fight. "I didn't sense you arrive."

"Clearly," Alandien said, her brows wrinkling in a small frown, "I thought I had taught you better, young lord."

"Sorry," he said with a ducked head, his right hand absently reaching up to scratch his head with the hilt of his sword, somewhat ashamed and apologetic at his lack of awareness. Something that his father was stern about and made sure to do his level best to make it stick with his son, just as he made it stick with his students and their students.

'Be Prepared' was practically his father's motto.

Alandien sighed heavily, "We will discuss that tomorrow," she said grimly, looking at him harshly despite her lack of eyes, "more important things need be discussed right now," her brows narrowed even further, "like why you are doing sword endurance drills when you should be abed, Lord Shirou."

Shirou winced as looked up at the suddenly scary form of his main tutor in the arts of battle.

Somehow, he thought that his answers to her questions wouldn't go down too well.

* * *

><p>Alandien Nightshade looked down at the young one who was both her greatest pride and, at times, her biggest annoyance.<p>

She had been serving her Lord Illidan for over a decade (at least in Outland time. Being in the Twisting Nether, otherwise immutable concepts like time and space were easily distorted and changed in Outland and could even be manipulated entirely by those with enough magical strength and the proper knowledge.) when she had been approached by the Lord of Outland himself for a task.

A task that involved the young one now standing sheepishly before her.

She had heard and seen the young one, it was hard not in his earlier days. His father, Illidan, and his mother, Lady Vashj, had made sure to keep him close to hand, not trusting anyone fully enough to look after him but themselves and a precious few loyal retainers that could be counted on a single hand with fingers left over.

Illidari's forces were, after all, were comprised of an element of demons and other unsavoury individuals, many of which wouldn't hesitate to use Illidan's son against him if it meant that they would have a chance at obtaining more power, whether it be financial, political, magical or martial.

The Shadow Lord made sure to keep those elements as far from his son as he could. The young one's made sure that any that attempted to circumvent the father were never able to do it twice.

Lord Illidan made a firm example with what was left of their corpses.

To those with greater loyalty to the Lord of Outland, loyalty that went beyond mere transactions of gold and power, however, the young child was a welcome surprise, even more so than the fact that Illidan had taken a lover in Lady Vashj (it surprised Alandien as well initially. Many were the songs and stories among her people that emphasised the unrequited love between the one they had called the Betrayer and the Champion of Elune. To take a lover in Lady Vashj was almost incomprehensible.).

Lord Illidan was a harsh and often cruel Lord. His word was law and the fates of those who disobeyed or failed him were the stuff that nightmares were made of. Many were they who failed a mission, through either incompetence or bad luck, that met their end by Lord Illidan's poisonous green glowing glaives. If they were lucky.

For all the Lord's cruelty, Lady Vashj was even worse, her own cruelty heightened by millennia of Naga society, which was harsh at best, and the slight taint of the Old Ones that touched all Naga, often bringing more negative personality traits to the surface, twisting the mentality of the Serpents of the Sea. Not so quick were the deaths of those who earned her ire. Like a serpent with mouse, she toyed with her prey, making them think they had a chance to avoid death, making them fearful and desperate as she turned their minds on themselves, making them break and shatter mentally and spiritually before she granted them the release of death.

That fact that she was of the female gender was also a factor. Females were often the more dangerous of the species, and the Naga proved it.

However, when the child was born, they started to change.

It wasn't overt at first, just small things. A degree of mercy for a soldier who failed a mission, a greater reward for a mage who succeeded in a particularly difficult task, just a few small subtle changes in their behaviours.

As they stayed longer in the young one's presence though, as the boy grew from wearing diapers to tottering around on his own two feet (the fact that he had born with two feet rather than a Naga's tail had been a surprise to say the least to many), the changes grew easier to see, the changes in both their personalities there for all to see.

No longer did Illidan brood in his solitude, thinking the dark thoughts as he dwelled on his defeats by The Lich King and the revenge he desired to extract from the walking corpse. He was now amongst the men, laughing with them (if rarely), fighting beside them, pushing them harder just as he pushed himself, finding in his body the drive to improve himself once more, to continuously get stronger and more powerful. The reputation he had with them, with the Illidari, increased greatly and loyalty to him rather than to riches and gold and power had begun to form...even amongst the demons bound to him.

Lady Vashj also changed, though not as overt as her paramour did. She seemed to devolve less into a primal mindset when angered, a trait that all Naga shared and was capitalised on by their enemies in combat, and became more involved with the Naga clans that had answered Illidan's call, making a more cohesive unit through mutual co-operation, a real army. She became more open to suggestions from her officers, rather than making decisions on her own and believing them to be the best, and was more lenient with failure, no longer killing her forces for screwing up unless it was by vast incompetence on their part.

The two leaders were not the best of beings, and probably never would be due to the choices they had made and the paths they both walked, but they had become Rulers, albeit dark rulers, in their own right rather than dictators and tyrants. They still ruled there respective forces with a firm and stern hand, but the demands the hand made were within the scope of the commanded.

And it was all because of the influence of the child standing before her, and the Illidari and many of the associated forces loved him for it.

As the boy grew older though, it was made clear that, despite his popularity, or may be _because _of it, the boy had a target on his back.

Many were the enemies that would seek him out, both Illidan and Lady Vashj having not been the most careful in avoiding angering certain forces, in order either kill him or control him, seeing him as a way to strike at the Lord of Outland. Thankfully, knowledge of the boy's existence was kept close to Illidan's forces and, to the Lord of Outland's knowledge, the only one that knew of the boy's existence outside of his forces was Queen Azshara, who had been informed by Lady Vashj herself.

However, Lord Illidan knew it wouldn't last. Eventually, his enemies would know of the child's, his child's, existence. And they would come for him.

Alliance. Horde. Legion. Scourge. Maybe Dragons. Or even just a fool looking for a decent paycheck. It didn't matter. They would come.

And so the child would need to be trained, taught to defend himself. Shown how to use flesh and steel, to wield powers arcane. To know the weaknesses of all the beasts of the earth, the birds in sky, the creatures of the deep and all the monster and beings that travel in between. To have knowledge of geography, history, tactics and myriad other academia.

However, neither Illidan or Vashj would be able to do it completely by themselves. Training a warrior, of any stripe, took dedication, time and effort, from both the student and the teacher. Time which, ironically due to the changes that the boy had brought about in them, they didn't have due to the duties that they had shouldered as Rulers of Outland.

So, much to his regret, having wanted to train his son himself, Illidan was forced to delegate the role of his son's primary tutor.

And thus she had been chosen.

Her skills in warfare, her intelligence and knowledge on myriad of subjects, like the arcane, due to having lived as long as she had (millennia of life and experience granting her wisdom) and, most importantly, her unswerving loyalty to Lord Illidan made her a excellent choice and one that could be trusted with the young lord's welfare without any fear of ulterior motives or subversion from the more unsavoury elements that abided in Black Temple.

She had been properly introduced to her prospective student when he was around six, a respectable age for a child to begin to learn the arts of war and battle...for a human.

She had initially thought that Lord Illidan had sensed something ill in the wind, or was completely mad and delusional, for him to introduce his son, who was of elven blood, so early as to be a dangerous and, to the child, quite possibly deadly decision. The long lived races such as her own (now that their 'immortality' was gone due to the events at Mt. Hyjal and she had little hope that the Teldrassil would be as powerful as the original World Tree), the Draenei, Quel'dorei and others, which included the Naga, all had stretched out childhoods compared to humans, taking longer to grow up and reach full maturity, taking at least a century to reach such a point.

This meant that a normal six year old elven child would be comparable to a less than two year old human.

She had made a protest, saying that he was far too young, that it was impossible for the child to be able to train and had hid revulsion at what she had thought that her lord was planning to turn the child, one of his own blood, into a weapon, much like the more ill-minded of bandits who abducted various children to raise at such a young age to become little more than blood thirsty wildlife berserkers.

To her further disgust, he had only chuckled before gesturing her to follow him, something she did reluctantly, the first pangs of treacherous thoughts seeping into her mind, her fel tainted energies surging forth in response to her darker emotions, eager to be used in violence, urging to fight and steal power from her superior. Thankfully, she had enough self control, something that had pounded into her by her Lord, to quell those demonic impulses. Had she surrendered to them, she knew she wouldn't have lasted a moment against her Lord.

He wasn't called the Lord of Outland for nothing after all.

It was after a brief walk that she was formerly introduced to her would-be student and charge, seeing him with her own eyes (or rather her mage sight due to her demon hunter training) her Lord's actions were then understandable to her.

Lord Shirou was far from a normal elven child.

His looks were very different compared to his parents. His skin colour was a few shades darker than sky blue and lacked the scales on the lower body of his mother's race and was bereft of the arcane markings or tribal marks that littered his sire's body. He had two legs instead of his mother's tail. His chin length hair was a crimson red, the shade of blood and rust, that drew her eye at the unusual colour, neither of his parents having a similar one. His ears, in her opinion, were at least normal and clearly showed his elven heritage with their length.

However all these features had paled in comparison, were almost forgettable, next to his eyes.

Warm gold orbs that drew all that looked into them in, practically glowing in the dark with the immense power hidden behind them. Eyes that heralded changing and turbulent times, where those with a great destiny thrust upon them would stand out among others, an eagle amongst crows, a crane among geese.

His father's eyes.

It was not just the colour that had had her mesmerised though. There was a hint of steel in those depths, hidden behind the warm gold, showing a potential in him, a potential that would either take him far or see him fall before he reached his goal. There was a drive, a determination, a burning fire like that of a blacksmith's forge that told her that he would never give up.

They were not the eyes of a child and yet, much to her surprise, they were set in the face of the youthful form of young Shirou. A young Shirou who's body's maturity was not that of a six year old elfling's, but rather comparable to a six year old human's.

It had stirred a curiosity in her. To see such a strange person and she couldn't but wonder how far he could go, which path he would take in the future and where his destiny lied.

The combination of her Lord's orders, the child's odd physical maturity, and her own musings eventually led her to accept her Lord's proposal to be the young lord's tutor.

It was something that she hadn't regretted over the last six years of Outland time.

Though that wasn't to say that there weren't some rough points and downsides, like now. That her charge seemed to love training when he should be asleep...

She had lost more than a few months worth of beauty sleep because of that annoying habit of his.

She looked through her blindfold down at the sheepish child, "This is the third time this week you have crept down here," she said sternly to her student/charge, scolding him for his recklessness, "and the tenth time this _month_ alone...and it still has more than a week to go! You know well enough that you shouldn't be here or be doing that at this time. Your mother, father and myself have made that abundantly clear again and again." She lowered her voice as she notice it starting to creep up as she vented her frustration with the stubborn child. She sighed softly, "why did you do this, Shirou?" She said wearily, forgoing the formalities of titles, she was too damned tired to really care about such things at the moment.

This was not the first time he had done this...nor would it likely be the last. Alandien had come to learn that her student was nothing if not diligent and dedicated in his training, more than willing to put in the hard yards, mentally and physically, and had never complained about the tasks she had set or the workouts she had given him. Indeed, he seemed to thrive under the pressure, his body adapting to the force she had her student put on it very quickly, almost too quickly to be natural. It had made her proud, knowing that her pupil could perhaps become one of the best fighters through sheer dedication alone, and his heritage only helped his growth. His parents were far from powerless and it made sense for their son to have inherited at least some of that potential (for all that he looked more like one of the Highborne than he did one of his parents at this point).

The problem was keeping him from _over_training.

Even from the start of his training, the demon huntress had noticed that her charge seemed to have a goal, a desire to reach something, and was determined to reach it as soon as he could, and used that determination to fuel his body and mind, pushing past his limits.

Where other men and women would have fallen, their bodies unable to take the strain anymore, Lord Shirou had simply gritted his teeth and pushed through, even at the cost of tearing a muscle or worse.

Where others would falter at the influx of information from their studies, Shirou kept reading, taking notes and making sure he understood the information he was given well enough...and then came back for more, to the point of forgoing sleep and meals at times.

Her pride had swiftly turned into worry when she had finally understood the depths of this determination, this obsession, and had immediately tried to tone down her lessons, setting a slower pace in the hopes he would recover from this self-destructive phase.

She didn't have much luck, the young man had only turned his attention to more private studies in his own time in order to make up for the adjustments she had made.

She, having no choice, had then resorted to speaking to her Lord and his paramour about his almost fanatical behaviour, hoping that they had taken notice and may be able to rein him in. Thankfully, both were aware of it and were taking steps but they hadn't fully understood the lengths that their son had gone to, the boy seeming to have a gift for hiding things to a degree, and had been shocked.

The entire situation had then been brought out into the open between the young lord's parents, the boy and herself with a deliberate discussion. Lord Illidan almost demanding to know why the boy was doing such dangerous stunts, stunts that verged on destroying the boy utterly in mind, body and soul, whilst also berating him for doing such foolish things. The sheer anger in the Lord of Outland's voice, which had made many quiver in abject terror before him, belied the true emotion it stemmed from.

That of fear. Fear of having bury his own child.

Lord Shirou, however, weathered the berating unflinchingly, his face an odd mask of both acceptance and rebellion. A strange look that none of the adults had ever seen before due to the contradictory nature of both feelings.

Lord Illidan finally finished his tirade and demanded to know why. Why did his son do these things? Why did he risk his future health and well being in this way?

Shirou had only smiled at his father.

An odd smile, one with a hint of sadness, of wistfulness, but mainly filled with a determination, a desire. It was the smile of a man who had sacrificed much, and would sacrifice still more, to reach his goal, his dream, one that's end was almost in sight but wishing that the end would come sooner.

That smile and a single cryptic word were his only answer to his father's parental concerned rage.

Still, the argument, if it could be called that, had helped to mitigate the young lord's foolishness. He still worked hard but Alandien and Lady Vashj were able to keep him from going overboard for the most part, directing his attention toward other avenues than study and warcraft, making him take up a hobby that allowed the young elven boy to unwind and relax.

It had worked, to a point. The youth was no longer tearing himself apart and had set a more acceptable, if still swift, pace for his studies and was no longer just supremely focused on his goal, actually taking time to 'smell the roses'.

The hobby he had chosen to take up had also made itself beneficial beyond the point of relaxing him. Lady Vashj, in particular, had been very appreciative of the results.

Still, sometimes, the child backslid. Never becoming as bad as he once had been, the talk with his parents had seemed to have established itself well enough, but still concerning. Little things like what she had just caught him doing now.

"I had trouble sleeping," her charge said, snapping her out of her thoughts on the past, making her attention return to the sheepish and apprehensive looking child, "I tried for a while but..." He shrugged a little, looking uncertain, worried, making Alandien frown slightly, "I guess I was just restless and stressed. Especially with the...you know." He finished uncomfortably even as Alandien's eyebrows rose in sudden understanding as things became clear.

Considering what was just around the corner, the fact that the boy was stressed and restless enough to backslide into old habits wasn't very surprising. To be honest, she wasn't much better.

She was a demon _hunter, _a warrior and fighter_, _not a silver tongued _negotiator._

"Understandable," she murmured thoughtfully as she eyed her nervous charge, "but still not acceptable," she rebuked him, "if you are so restless and anxious about the coming talks you should have seen the healers for a sleeping aid," she lectured, "'the warrior who goes to battle tired will find find his rest on the battlefield.'" She quoted the words of wisdom from her own sire, long since passed on, and words she had lived by and had ensured her student knew from the very first day.

Lord Shirou looked up at her, a slight frown on his face, "But this is only a diplomatic meeting." He protested slightly, making Alandien roll her blindfolded eyes inwardly.

For all the skill he displayed in warcraft, his skills regarding social interaction and wordplay, something that was the basic root of all diplomacy, were no where near as good. Give him a sword and he would be fine (she had ensured that and his own seeming natural skill with any bladed weapon had only added to the certainty. Any fool who tried to match blades with him now would get a very nasty surprise.) but ask him for florid words and you would be disappointed.

Don't get her wrong, he was the epitome of a polite and well mannered young man, almost never having a harsh word for anyone. But, sometimes, he seemed to have problems understanding certain social aspects, like he didn't really think the same way as others did.

He just wasn't cut out for the, sometime literal, cut throat aspects of political manoeuvring, of subtle words and hidden agendas.

He generally let his actions speak for him rather than hollow words that aren't worth the air breathed to speak them.

It was not the best trait a figurative 'prince' could have.

And as his tutor in many areas, it fell to her to correct this rather difficult problem and oversight. Thankfully the boy's serpentine mother, who was used to and experienced in the power plays in Azshara's court, was aiding the night elf in her endeavour.

"The battlefield can take many forms," she said sternly to her student, "as can weapons and warriors. These talks will be a different sort of battle and you will have to treat it as such." She warned him.

She watched as he silently contemplated that before sighing slightly. She was up now and, she had to admit, was pretty restless herself. The talks coming up had everyone in the Temple on edge.

Perhaps she could kill two birds with one stone.

A subtle flick of a hand and then she swung, her weapon in hand, at her student's throat.

Chunk!

It never reached as her student reacted with the speed she expected, blocking her glaive with his wooden blade, easily keeping the sharp edge at bay, even as his eyes widened in slight surprise at her actions.

Her lips twitched in satisfaction. She had trained him well. Time to see if he had improved. She hadn't had a proper spar with him for a while. Time to rectify that.

A twitch of her foot and she thrust kicked at her students chest, to push him away to start the spar properly. Unsurprisingly, her foot never touched his flesh. His other blade quickly intercepted, blocking her foot's sole and locking in place, the wooden blade refusing to move closer to it's wielder.

That was fine. That wasn't what she wanted any way.

The power of her kick was still transferred to her student however, making him slide back several feet, furrows in the created by the young elven boy's heels, and wrenching her glaive's edge from being embedded in the weighted training blade. The young lord, in a show of impressive strength, managed to keep a firm hold on his blade, never letting it escape his firm grip.

"If you are too restless to sleep, young lord," she said calmly to her surprised looking student, his golden eyes watching her cautiously, warily, flickering to her now readied glaives and the firm stance she took, the crimson glow from her chosen weapons flaring higher, "Then let me aid in your goal."

With her piece said, she launched one of her glaives at her student, a whirring disc of death and pain to anything it struck, while quickly following it, her other glaive at ready to strike at her opponent with it's wicked edge.

She only had time to see her student's surprised look fade to a determined one, the light of understanding and hidden gratitude in them before becoming steely gold, before, after easily flowing around her flying glaive, he met her other blade with strikes of his own, beginning the dance of battle between them.

The training grounds were filled with the clash of steel on wood and of flesh on flesh that night, continuing on beneath the ever shifting emerald radiance of the Twisting Nether and the orbs of planets and stars and moons therein.

* * *

><p>Under the light of a small pale white glowing gem, a sapphire hand, that seemed to shimmer with a rainbow cast if the pale light of the gem struck it at a certain angle, slowly moved the quill it grasped in it's long fingers, the long and viciously sharp nails adorning them doing nothing to hinder the slow, sure and purposeful movements. Each stroke of the quill was unhurried and was made with great deliberation as the owner of the hand put their thoughts to the parchment, the bright scarlet ink leaving it's mark on the green substance.<p>

_To My Queen Azshara, the Light of Lights and Empress of Nazjatar._

_Greetings and Salutations,_

_In accordance with your decree I hereby submit my annual report for you to read at your leisure._

_In regards to the initial task, I can assure you of a profound degree of success. You were right to believe that Lord Illidan's power was nothing to trifle with, even if it was below your own, and despite several set backs, particularly in regards to the denizens of Ice Crown, he has shown himself to have the capability to carve out a Kingdom for himself and keep it under his control._

_His title as the 'Lord of Outland' is by no means a joke and holds a great deal of truth. Few within this shattered realm have the power to challenge him alone and the armed forces he has created will, in a short time, have enough manpower to situate itself as a Faction in it's own right. Even now he has enough manpower, with the aid of the clans of your people already here, to strike a decisive blow to the other inhabitants of this strange land and tilt the balance of power even more in his favour._

_However, upon discussion and consultation with his staff, which included myself and the Naga generals under my command, a slower and, possibly, more certain approach was decided rather than an all out assault. An approach that he has asked me to lead._

_In conclusion to the initial task that you graced me with, I can confidently say that Lord Illidan would be a welcome and, more importantly, powerful ally. So long as he is shown integrity, honour and respect, dealings with him should be possible and, through careful questioning, would be open to a more formal alliance between himself and you._

_In my somewhat biased advice, I would strongly urge you to think on this. The possibilities it opens up are nothing to be idly turned away._

The quill paused in it's scratching, the owner's eyes narrowing slightly in thought, shifting slightly in her seat of coiled flesh and scales, before continuing to write. The quill moved slower, the scratching more quiet, as she carefully chose the words appropriate words to voice her thoughts.

_In regards to my more personal endeavours, I believe you will be most pleased._

_As you know from my earlier reports, my son is quite an enigma to many amongst my lover's forces. As a child of one of the original Naga, myself being one of the Highborne that was affected by the Sundering, and the originator of Demon Hunters, who's body has since become more relatable to a hybrid between demon and kal'dorei rather than pure kal'dorei, it was expected that my child would be a unique existence, to say the least. None were even sure that a child could be born of such a union._

_To my everlasting thankfulness, a child, my child, was indeed born. And he was unique from his very first breath._

_At first blush, he looks as though he had inherited none of the physical traits of our race, like a tail, bone plates or scales, ill suited to life beneath the waves, and instead had more traits in common with his sire, but lacking the more demonic appendages like wings or horns, but even that wasn't quite correct._

_It seemed that my child was a throwback, exhibiting traits that we both had long since forgotten we had or had since lost over the millennia due to various circumstances. It was like he was an elven child, but of a kind none were able to determine. The closest we could get was as if he were a Highborne child, before they were exiled and became the Quel'dorei in Quel'thalas._

_It was something that I was proud of, bearing the child of a shattered race who's own birth rates were rare in the first place. Despite now being content with my new form, I will always have memories, both good and bad, of my old form, when I rushed through hill and dale and forest, leaping from tree to tree, rather swim in the depths of the sea with all the wonders and dangers therein._

_If I were to be honest and vain, it was perhaps my silky hair that I missed the most, despite the advantages my head serpents give me in combat._

_The fact that my own child has locks of hair, which I have encouraged him to grow out, is something that gives me a reminder of who I was, the fonder memories of times long past, and can't help but be drawn to it. _

_The fact that it was a stunning red, a colour none had ever seen before in any elven race, and his skin an almost sky blue, once again never seen, also made me proud due to the fact it hinted at hidden potential. A unique form for a unique and precious existence._

_And the golden eyes of destiny that shone out of it._

_As he grew up, he began to exhibit more signs of his uniqueness amongst others._

_The most concerning was the rate of his ageing, comparable to that of the mortal races of Azeroth, the humans in particular. _

The quill paused as the hand's grip on it tightened. The owner of said hand remembering those agonising days when she had assumed the worst, that she would feel the greatest horror a mother, a parent, could feel.

To out live their own child. To stay youthful and strong while their child, their legacy, wilted like a dying flower, crinkled and broken with age, before passing on.

She still remembered the chill that resided in her soul during those days, a bitterness at the world for giving her something precious only to take it away after having only barely touched it.

Her Lord had not been much better. Those who disturbed during those days had paid a heavy price for their foolishness.

She forced herself to keep writing, her serpent locks hissing and writhing in agitation to mirror her otherwise hidden anger.

_It is unknown why he is ageing at such a mortal rate, perhaps a consequence of the union between myself and my son's sire, but, thankfully, it seems that this will only affect his less mature years. There are strong indications that, once he reaches the height of his maturity, his ageing will slow to a crawl that is similar to other children of the elven races._

_But that is not a certainty._

The Naga drew a breath as she paused in her writing, and breathed out to expel the pent up emotion that discussing her child's possible mortality had caused before continuing.

_There are also other attributes that are unique to him and may have possible links to his ageing._

_One of which is his physical growth. His father is one of the most physically powerful of his original race, which was vastly increased by his acceptance of demonic power, and his son seems to share that trait in a way._

_It seems that he gets more out his training, putting on muscle, ingraining reflexes and muscle memory, far faster than many others can and seems to have an endless endurance, allowing him to push his body harder, to gain more from it._

_It is honestly rather startling to see the equivalent of a seven year old child defeat a blooded elven warrior in physical might._

_And it seems that this strength could very well have very little in the way of limitations. The possibilities of a fighter with endless growth potential are fascinating to say the least._

_As glorious as his potential as a warrior is, his magical potential is a bit more...strange._

The Naga matron of the Coilfangs smirked slightly at the understatement she had written. Her son, her beautiful and powerful son, was nothing if not unique.

_In regards to the more common paths of spell casting, whether it be Druid, Shaman, Warlock, Paladin or classical Mage, it can be said that my son is, sadly, an abject failure._

_His ties to the earth are lacking, thus denying him the gift of Druidism._

_The elemental spirits seem to be deaf to his call or, somehow, ignorant of his existence, thus banning him from Shamanism._

_The Light is something that he doesn't truly follow, believing it to be rather judgemental, and thus will not respond to him._

She frowned slightly as she wrote down the next point.

_It also seems that demonic power is not exactly compatible with him, despite the nature of his father. The fel energies he is supposed to absorb in the beginning of such training acted oddly. Instead of storing them for later use, his soul seemed to react violently, his natural power, which was quite sizeable, turned a dull silver and began engulfing, __**devouring, **__the fel energies, tearing them apart and subsuming them, converting them to something else, before disappearing._

_It was not a painless process and none could figure out what had truly happened. Further investigations are on going but results and answers are still beyond my reach._

_Oddly enough, while absorbing fel energies, the energies that Warlocks used to cast their spells and keep their demonic servitors in line, was ill fated, my son __can__ share that unique energy of his to demons amongst the Illidari and has quite the positive effect on them, like an energy boost and a meal all wrapped in one. It also seems to have some form of mental effect on those accepting the energies, a very subtle and almost indistinguishable one, but this has yet to be proven conclusively._

_In either case, while the true path of a Warlock is closed to him, he still has some strong ties to the more 'trustworthy' demons of his acquaintance, who would willingly answer his call if he beckoned._

The one time handmaiden of Azshara snorted delicately. Willingly didn't even begin to cover it. Her son was quite the attractive prospect for the shivarra and succubi in residence, who were the only ones apart from the felhunters who her son got along with. She giggled slightly to herself.

For all that he was not completely matured, her son still had a strikingly fit and powerful body, one that drew attention from many of the feminine gender, regardless of race and standing. Many of the succubi and shivarra, along quite a few of the female Naga of various clans and even female blood and night elves, made an excuse, at some point or another, to be present at the training grounds when her son was sparring, bare chested, against his primary tutor.

She chuckled softly again. Perhaps her mind was somewhat twisted over the centuries if she could find humour in her preteen child attracting the hungry attention of much older women.

Particularly women who had quite the reputation as man eaters.

**Literally.**

_It is in the path of Mage, however, that he shows a degree of competence, but still fails to meet the base standards of an Apprentice._

_His inborn magic is very...odd, which has led to this confusing assessment._

_Almost every spell that has been attempted to be taught to him failed. Often explosively._

_An example would be his simple attempt to produce a low level fireball spell, one barely strong enough to light a candle, which resulted in a concussive blast effect that sent him heads over heels backward into a wall, embedding him an inch deep in the wood, while turning the table the candle sat on into a pile of splinters and wood chips._

_Many are still trying to figure out how my son made a Flame natured spell become a Force natured one._

_I also adamantly refuse to say anything in regards to his dismal attempts at Frost natured spells._

The envoy of Queen Azshara shivered slightly in remembrance at that episode. A viewing of that particular backfire was often used in interrogations of prisoners. Showing them the memory in it's entirety to the prisoner and stating that they would be the youth's next target for the spell.

The prisoners generally folded like a house of cards at that threat and sang like canaries.

_It was rather frustrating to all involved. Myself and Lord Illidan, along with the more accomplished mages amongst the Illidari, could all clearly feel the substantial reserves of magical power in my son, but any attempt at a spell to express seemed to go awry in chaotic ways._

_It was by complete accident that we found a solution and a possible reason._

_It seems as though my son's gifts in the arcane are narrowly specific but, at the same time, is exceedingly powerful within those limits. It's like as if his very __**soul**__ was aligned with a certain aspect of existence so tightly as if to almost completely deny him the ability to use other methods of arcane expression. It is similar, but not identical to, the situation a spellcaster faces at some point in their lives, where they have to choose a discipline to pursue, leaving them unable to use spells of a different set due to compatibility, like choosing the path of a Warlock forbids ones from being able to use craft from Druidic and Shamanic sources. _

_The exact 'alignment' is yet to be determined but, considering the abilities my son is noted to have, I would guess it would have some connection with weaponry or perhaps steel._

_He seems to have a unique gift in postcognitive psychometry, especially in regards to anything related to weaponry, and extremely those that have a link to swords._

_The gift is such that, upon picking up a weapon, he seems to have an immediate mastery of it. Swordsmanship, polearm fighting, axe mastery or even archery, he seems to excel in such arts, even ones that are almost completely different from one and another, and the expertise stays with him even when he picks up freshly made weapons to wield. In addition, he seems able to 'mimic' (if that is the correct word) the fighting style of the weapon's true master if it has been in the owner's hands for a long enough time or the weapon is old enough to have a 'history', as my son terms it._

_This was proven by him wielding his sire's signature blades in the __**exact same**__ manner as his father...having never even lifted a similar blade before._

_I don't think I have to tell you the possibilities apparent in this particular gift._

_Additionally, this 'mimicry' doesn't just involve weaponry._

The female Naga rose one of her many hands to finger a delicate necklace of fine silver chain, a small pendant of a spiralling serpent, the symbol of the Coilfangs, attached to it to hang in the hollow of her throat. It was one of her most precious possessions and was never without it on her person.

_With but a glance and a touch of several tools, he has become a very accomplished jewelsmith, miner and blacksmith, with knowledge of otherwise hidden and secret plans of various unique and valuable items, such as weapons, armour, jewelled enhancements and others, from various races and factions now in our possession._

_And they wouldn't even know we have them._

_However, this gift goes hand in hand with his more specific ability in magic._

_It seems that he is nigh unrivalled in the aspect of Inanimate Conjuration in regards to weapons, able to create __**real**__ blades, axes and other simple arms, rather than fragile spectral constructs, for him to either wield in close combat or choose to launch at his foes with mind numbing speed. The conjurations also seem to be able to stay in existence longer than they should, which is still being investigated._

_With this, his unlimited growth potential, his psychometry and the fact that he is able to augment his already profound physical capabilities with magic, possibly the only conventional magical spell he has accomplished, and I can confidently say, without a shadow of a doubt, that my son has the capability to become a warrior without equal, as befitting a son of Illidan Stormrage._

_And this assessment is made by only what my son has only shown as of now._

_There are still mysteries that abound around my son and are no doubt waiting to be discovered due to the fickle nature of arcane power. It would not surprise me that my son has many other more hidden gifts due to the workings of wild arcane power, much like yourself and I were changed by the wild lashings of power from the Well of Eternity during the Sundering. Mysteries that could hold the key for Lord Illidan to cement a dynasty within this shattered land that would last for millennia._

_With respect and awaiting your response,_

_Handmaiden Vashj, Consort of Illidan Stormrage, Lord of Outland, and Matron of Coilfang._

Lady Vashj finally put up her quill, letting it rest in the pot of scarlet ink she had used as she perused her missive to her Queen for any mistakes she might have made, shifting in her lengthy coils restlessly.

Thankfully, there were none.

With practised ease, she swiftly rolled up the green scroll and, with a specific burst of magic, sealed it shut, a red wax seal of her clan appearing on it, and ensured that only her Queen would be able to open it and then lay it aside for it to be sent on the morrow as she rose on her coils to stretch the kinks in her spine from sitting at desk so long.

Six arms spread wide as she stretched and groaned heavily in relief as she felt the cracks in her back slowly disappear, leaving a sensation of relief in her joints.

It was one of the annoying things about living away from a decent water source. On the land, there was only yourself to support your physical position. Under the water, on the other hand, you could let yourself float at a steady depth, the very water supporting your body.

"What a day," she sighed as slid across the smooth stone walls of her private chambers, her tail propelling her smoothly out onto the small semi-circle marble balcony, taking in a deep breath of the fresh night air of the former world of Draenor.

She couldn't help but smile slightly as she watched the dance of the emerald aurora and the planets in the Twisting Nether that made up the sky of Outland. It was one of the few things that never stopped awing her about this place. You could never find such a sight on Azeroth.

She leant the smooth bulstrade of the terrace, letting her mind think as her eyes kept watching the dance and play in the sky. She had completed her missive to her Queen and she say with a degree of certainty that the Queen Beneath the Waves would be quite pleased with the information therein, especially in regards to her son.

Her often harsh face softened even more. Her son. Her beautiful son. She had a beautiful son.

Even after over a decade (in Outland time), she was still filled with awed joy at that fact. She had never thought that she would ever have children, a combination of never finding an appropriate enough mate and a small illness earlier in life (before the Sundering) having made it almost impossible for her to do so, the already low fertility of her former race not helping at all. It was only through her mate's seed's sheer potency and quite a bit of luck that she was even able to be impregnated.

Her lack of children to continue her line had been a large sticking point for her and had called into question her fitness to be a Clan Matron of the Coilfangs. Thankfully, her own skill in battle and politics had allowed her to keep that high position from all challengers.

She frowned slightly, her snake hair hissing lowly to reflect her sudden agitation.

Now that she had a child though, her line could continue and there would be many a snake-hipped temptress that would seek to take her child to their bed, despite his young age. The line of succession in Naga culture went through the female line, a reflection of their female dominant society. However, in the case of a son being the only possible heir, he would take up his mother's role until such time as he had taken a wife and a child was born, and then he would step down and allow his wife to take up the role of Regent until the child heir, male or female, would reach maturity in order to take up their rightful place.

To put it simply; if any Naga female (for the halls of power beneath the waves would only permit their own race to hold power in Azshara's court. Her son's own hybrid status was somewhat of an exception, there never having been such a being to exist before. Many of the racial purists wanted him killed, an insult to the superiority of the Naga, but were wise enough to keep it behind closed doors. The fact that the boy's father was the Lord of Outland, a being that had few equals in power, made them cautious and the fact that the boy had the Queen's curiosity, and favour, had forced them to take a 'wait and see' approach to his continued existence, circling around she and her son like wolves, ready to destroy them at the first sign of weakness.) were to be 'knocked up' by her son, then they would be able to make a massive step up in power, wielding official influence amongst the clan second only to herself and her son, regardless of previous background.

Vashj could easily see many opportunistic scaled whores trying their luck with her son, his own accelerated growth rate working against him in this manner and leaving him vulnerable to seduction, an avenue of politics she hadn't yet covered with him.

Words, Coin, the Bed and the Blade were the universal staples of statescraft, after all.

She frowned even heavier. The time was also nearing for a more public appearance of her son to be made, to be introduced to prospective allies of the Illidari as an heir of Illidan. It would allow the Illidari to gain a bit more legitimacy, people do so love a chance at continuing stability in rule after all, and could net them a few more gains in an alliance (much as she did not like it personally, in politics, even her own child was a tool, to a point, albeit one that was used only sparingly.).

Though she would be sure to keep away from any possible arranged marriages. Few of them ended well and even fewer succeeded in doing what they were created for. No, an arranged marriage was far from a stable base on which to raise an alliance.

However, it also opened them up to new concerns. Legion, Alliance and Horde all had a bone to pick with Illidan and many wouldn't hesitate to use his son as possible leverage or simply kill him as a possible threat equal to his sire. She knew they would eventually find out about his existence, there was no getting around that and it was the reason that they had begun his training.

But she thought it may be too early, that her son wasn't quite ready.

But there was no helping it. It had to be done, and soon. There were already rumours in Shattrath about a blue skinned youth, a boy really, that stood at the side of Illidan and was treated warmly. It would only be a short step before those whispers reached the ears of some one powerful enough, and curious enough, to send out teams of their champions to assess the truth of them.

She sighed heavily, her head falling forwards as she rubbed her temples with two of her many hands in a vain effort to ward off a headache. Life seemed to be a never ending one and was determined to upgrade to a migraine.

Vashj of the Naga suddenly frowned slightly as she noticed something on the fields below and turned to look with her own primary eyes. The eyes of the serpents that made up her hair were not the best, but they ensured that blind spots were almost completely eliminated and made many a Naga Wave Priestess almost impossible to sneak up on.

All it took was a single look before she sighed in exasperation at the familiar sight of her late night training and roaming son facing off against his tutor in warcraft's glowing glaives.

"He'll never learn," she muttered, her mouth twitching as it tried to smile in fond annoyance. It had happened plenty of times before, becoming almost routine, and as such she was used to it, even amused by it. Though she would question her child in how he managed to get past the magical alarms that would have alerted her to his sneaking around in the morning.

The familiar sight relaxed her slightly, letting the tension that had been building up in her ebb away as she watched her son and Alandien dance to the tune of battle.

There was no use stressing over things for now. Her mind was slightly tired and it would not do to make any decisions with her thoughts hampered in anyway. She would think on it another day.

For now, she would just enjoy the sight of her precious son as he grew in strength and might.

For now.

* * *

><p>Eyes of emerald flame, high above, watched the two figures, one that glowed the familiar green with black wisps of a Demon Hunter and the other, the smaller one, a unique uniform dull silver, like a well made blade, exchange blows with their weapons as they sparred in the otherwise empty training field of his army, far below. His vision was not impeded by the distance between them and could easily make out each individual movement with an experienced eye, picking out the small flaws in both of the combatants<p>

"He is growing well," the owner of those emerald flames rumbled, the flames in place of his eyes burning brighter for a moment, small green torches that burned through the black cloth that covered them but hindered him not.

The Lord of Outland shrugged slightly, his clawed toes biting into the black stone of the edge and rustling his wings of flesh and blood and bone as he made himself comfortable in his examination and observation of his own son and heir.

His brow furrowed slightly in thought. His son. He had never thought that he would ever say that. Not after his millennia of confinement and imprisonment. And definitely not of someone who was not of Tyrande's womb.

His clawed toes dug deeper into the black stone of the former Temple of Karabor.

Tyrande.

That very name brought conflicting emotions with it. He had loved her, for her beauty, for her intelligence, for her kindness, for the sheer strength of will that she had, since they had been barely been out of their first century of life.

But it had not been returned in the way he wished. Even back then, he could see the growing closeness between his twin brother and her. It had made him jealous, even more so when his brother seemed oblivious to the attentions she gave him. Couldn't she see that he was just as strong, if not stronger, than his Druidic brother? That he could give her the attention she deserved?

That desire for her attention had been one of the reasons he had walked the arcane path. Azshara had shown him the might one could wield as an arcanist. Perhaps if he was overwhelmingly stronger he could garner her attentions, her desire?

It hadn't worked. Worse, it seemed to make her more distant to him and closer to his brother.

Then there had been the entire mess that was the Sundering and his eventual imprisonment. It still galled him that his brother had been the one to close that dark door, all because of their fear and prejudice of the arcane.

His sacrifices had been for naught.

He had hopes when beautiful Tyrande had freed him from that lonely darkness, to the point of slaying her own people in order to do so, so that he could fight the Legion. His brother hadn't been very happy with that decision.

The later series of events, like his first confrontation with the bastard Arthas, absorbing the power of the Skull of Gul'dan and then utterly destroying Tichondrious and his help with the power he gained, gave him even more hope. He was much stronger now, clearly superior to his brother, and had destroyed an enemy that threatened Tyrande.

The hope turned to ashes. He could clearly remember the expression of disgust and outrage that had adorned her face as Malfurion berated him for his actions, in complete agreement with the Druid's decision to banish him.

Not even a sword blow to the gut could have hurt him more than that expression.

He shook himself, rustling his folded wings. He didn't want to revisit those memories, or the ones that came after. Not now. He had more important things to worry about than a lost love.

He turned his attention back to his son.

He was shaping up well and would be a fine heir when, or if, the time came if he carried on improving as he was. He was everything he could have wanted in a son. Strong. Intelligent (if slightly obtuse and dense regarding females. Then again, most men are, and his was only just getting out of the, to use a human term, 'cooties' stage of his life. Though he had noticed his son had never truly exhibited such signs. Perhaps due to the lack of similar aged beings in the Temple.). Skilled in the paths he had chosen to develop.

Yes, he would grow to be a fine adult.

However, he was still young and had many years to go before he could be considered a complete adult. He lacked real world experience, mostly due to having never been allowed to leave the Temple (there were many enemies out there that wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of his son. At least in the Temple he could relatively guarantee his safety.). Experience that he would eventually need to have.

But his son needed to be stronger, to be a cut above the rest in order to defend himself, before he could let his son leave. Something that his son had wanted to do for quite a while.

He could understand that, his own childhood had been one of relative freedom. Running through the forests, hunting and playing with his brother and Tyrande had made up the majority of those early days...before they had become students of Cenarius.

However times had changed, the world had changed (in no small part because of his own actions).

Not to mention that he suspected there was more to his son's desire to travel than just to get experience and freedom. There had been a light in his eyes, ones that were similar to what his own had been once upon a time, a driving desire and need that was familiar.

His son seemed to mirror him more than he had initially thought.

The dull silver figure of his son far below finally stepped back from his opponent, holding up his hands in surrender. It seemed that his son had finally wore himself out. And it only took hours of endurance training and a lengthy full contact spar with a superior fighter!

He looked up into the sky as he felt a stiff breeze blow, ignoring his son and his tutor as they wandered back into the Temple, no doubt to finally rest.

The alliance talks that were upcoming would be when he would make his final decision regarding his son. The upcoming talks were important and, while not his most favourite pastime, he would need to play the political game rather than one of battle.

Even he wasn't willing to tangle with an entire flight of dragons.

* * *

><p><strong>Alright, I know some of you guys are going to be up in arms about my butchering of lore from WoW but, in my defence, I have only played it a little and haven't read the novels. I haven't even <em>seen <em>a comic or manga of it and wouldn't know where to start looking.**

**That said, what I do know is going to be used and twisted to a point. The Illidan and Vashj we have all come to know aren't exactly around. Shirou's influence is quite strong in them, keeping them from going over the edge into madness, as befitting of a precious child. They still have the same basic traits but they have been changed slightly, making them more towards neutral than chaotic.**

**However, it is to be remembered that a leopard can't really change it's spots. They can still be cruel and malevolent, having had millennia to become that way, it's just that Shirou brings out their more hidden decent side, at least a little.**

**In regards to Shirou's current abilities, he still suffers from his 'Incarnation' problem, thus limiting his options on magical education. The warlock path difference is a bit of a cheat really. He doesn't have the ability to compel any demon to do his commands, like a true Warlock could, but he can summon them with magical energy and an item. Think of it more as a summoning contract from Naruto rather than a familiar/enslavement bond.**

**In regards to his appearance, I can legitimately see him being a throwback, a return to an earlier stage. Naga were originally night elves and Vashj in particular was one of the originals, turned during the Sundering. Mixing with Illidan's blood, they should have made a night elf but, due to the large amounts of arcane and fel energy running in both of them, they get something different. In lore, it was noted that night elves who practiced arcane magic went through gradual and irreversible changes. I just made it so that Shirou had those changes from the start. If you want to get a fix on his appearance, I based it on a male version of Mystique from the X-men Evolution cartoon.**

**Be aware, however, that he may change as time goes by.**

**The next chapter will be a bit more interesting. There will be politics and there will be fighting. The enemy that will be faced, however, will require a degree of twisting of WoW lore but hopefully you all will find it enjoyable.**

**As always, your reviews will be welcomed and appreciated and flamers will be punished.**

**Best wishes,**

**Kujikiri21**


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